Second Sunday (31 page)

George was so regal he made Sheba think of an African king—
her
African king. He was wearing a pale blue Ghanaian tunic with silver braiding around the neckline and sleeves, as well as
on the edges of his matching pants and hat. When George looked deeply into Sheba’s eyes, whispering, without moving a muscle
in his face, “You are my queen, Sheba,” she reached out toward Mr. Louis Loomis for a handkerchief.

Rev. Theophilus Simmons, who was conducting the ceremony, was overjoyed for his friend on this glad day. George Wilson was
the first friend he’d made when he was appointed the pastor of Greater Hope Gospel United Church in Memphis. It was George
who had let him talk out his grief when Theophilus was healing from being tangled up with a woman he would discover was George’s
own ex-wife, Glodean Benson. Only a man who had been whipped down by Glodean could understand the pain and torment that woman
could inflict.

From the beginning, George had been as loyal and good a friend as Theophilus’s buddy, Rev. Eddie Tate, who had flown down
from Chicago with his wife, Johnnie, to attend this wedding. When Theophilus told Eddie that George had finally gotten some
sense and was going to marry Sheba Cochran, all Eddie could do was say, “God is good. ’Cause Theo, man, some of the sweetest
and most virtuous women can come in the most controversial and unusual packages, like Sheba and my wife, Johnnie.”

As the guests formed a semicircle around the bride and groom, Eddie wrapped his arm around Johnnie, kissed her on the cheek,
and whispered, “You know I love you, girl—with your ole sapphire-tooth-wearing self.”

Johnnie, looking good in a pastel pink dress that hugged every voluptuous curve, smiled and sucked on that sapphire and gold
tooth she was so famous for. She loved her some Eddie Tate. And she worked hard by his side as the first lady of Mount Zion
Gospel United Church. Of all of the people in this chapel, Johnnie Tate was the most joyful for Sheba. Because when she fell
in love with Eddie, he was just as stubborn and running as fast from love as George Wilson. When she first heard about Sheba,
she started praying on that hardheaded George right then and there.

The wedding was very small—just MamaLouise, Mr. Louis Loomis, Bert and Nettie, Viola and Wendell, Sylvia and Melvin Sr., the
Tates, the Cantrells, and Theophilus and Essie Simmons—but it was perfect as far as George was concerned. His first wedding
had been a major production, and being merely the groom, he was assigned only a walk-on role in the extravaganza. But this
wedding was different—it was not about the show, it was about the Lord and the marriage.

Sheba and George exchanged their simple white gold wedding bands amid loved ones gathered in one accord, all rejoicing over
this union. And when Theophilus pronounced George and Sheba “husband and wife,” he could barely get “And now you may kiss
the bride” out of his mouth before George had Sheba wrapped up in a deeply passionate kiss.

At first Sheba was embarrassed by her husband’s display of affection. But when she felt his heart beating in the same rhythm
as hers, she relaxed and embraced him, losing herself in his kisses. Then George put his cheek next to hers, closed his eyes
with the pleasure of the softness of it, and whispered, “I love you, baby.”

Sheba blushed and lowered her eyes. George held his wife and breathed to her in a voice so soft that it made Sheba feel like
he was making love to her, “Can you feel me, girl?”

When she gave him a shy and self-conscious smile, he said, “Can you handle me, baby?”

“Time for y’all to leave,” Mr. Louis Loomis said, to diffuse some of that heat, because those two didn’t even know there was
anybody else in the chapel at the moment. Folks like that needed to handle their business so that they could come back to
earth with the rest of the people. But then again, as far as Mr. Louis Loomis was concerned, it was a mighty beautiful and
blessed thing for two people to feel that way about each other.

The parsonage looked beautiful, decked out in flowers and ribbons for the pastor and his new First Lady by Nettie, Viola,
Sylvia, MamaLouise, and Miss Mozelle. It was a lovely classic two-story house with large, high-ceilinged rooms painted a soft
cream with a hint of sunset pink, which was echoed in the sand-colored hardwood floors. It had gracious bay windows with comfy
window seats, overlooking a well-manicured lawn and flowers in the front yard and a tiny vegetable garden in the back.

George took Sheba’s hand and guided her upstairs, then opened the door to the master bedroom. He couldn’t help but smile as
he witnessed the pure delight on his wife’s face at seeing the inviting room for the very first time. It had pale violet walls,
a large sleigh bed with a pale gray satin comforter, and large soft pillows in violet, pink, white, and gray.

“Your wedding gift, baby,” George said. “You like it?”

Sheba’s eyes shone. “It’s perfect. Thank you, George. I’ve never had anybody give me a gift like this.”

George took Sheba’s bouquet, placed it on the dresser, and kissed her hand. “You deserve it, sweetheart,” he said, kissing
each of her fingertips. He reached up and unwrapped her headdress to reveal beautiful cornrowed braids swept up into a French
roll, which glistened in the light. He ran his fingers over those braids and said, “Baby, who did your hair? I’ve never seen
this kind of braided hair.”

“Sylvia.”

“I love it.”

Sheba’s eyes filled with tears, as she whispered again, “Thank you, George.” Nobody had ever told her that she had beautiful
hair.

George kissed Sheba with such love and tenderness, the tears fell down her cheeks. He bent down and tasted them, taking her
chin in both hands, and kissed her on the lips, first softly and gently, then more urgently. She felt the heat coming from
that kiss all over her body and pulled her husband in closer.

“Baby,” he said, “you just hold on to me to your heart’s content.”

George let his hands slip down to cup Sheba’s behind. It felt good. He pressed her to him and did a slow grind, slipping his
foot between hers, letting Sheba feel as much of him as she could. When she jumped and said, “
George,
” he just laughed. “What’s wrong, girl?”

“Nothing. But you . . .”

“I’m what, baby? Tell me what I am,” he asked, with mischief running in his voice.

“Uhh, never mind.”

“Sheba,” George said, unbuttoning the top of her dress, “how did you get those four babies?”

“The regular way,” she answered bashfully, eyes closed, as he slid her top from her shoulders, put it on a chair, and slipped
off her skirt.

“Hmm . . . I’m not so sure about those,” George muttered, tugging at her stubborn panty hose. “Help me with these things,
Sheba.”

Sheba took off her panty hose and shoes. She was standing in front of her husband wearing only a baby blue lace bra and matching
panties. Her figure wasn’t curvy, just nice, and cute, and so firm that it didn’t look like she had one baby, let alone four.

“I thought brides were supposed to wear white.”

“You once told me that blue was your favorite color,” she pointed out. “So I thought I’d wear something you liked on your
wedding day.”

“Oh really?” George said, and eased Sheba over to the bed, standing in front of her and removing his clothes down to the pale
blue cotton boxers he was wearing. Then he slipped her out of the rest of her clothes and lay her gently on the bed.

“I’m cold, George.”

“No you’re not—you are embarrassed,” he said, lying beside his wife and wrapping his arms tightly around her. “Now, is that
better?”

Sheba nestled up in George’s arms and whispered, “Yes.”

“Well, then,” he said, planting a hot kiss on her lips, “this should be even better. What you think, girl?” George rolled
Sheba on her back and let her feel his full weight, looking deep into her eyes, before kissing her again. He kissed her lips,
each cheek, her earlobes, her jawbone, and nibbled at the hollow of her neck, then moved down to her collarbone and planted
a soft kiss right on the spot where he could feel Sheba’s heart beating hard and fast. George sighed and kept kissing his
wife—her stomach, the sides of her hips, and on down.

Sheba lay perfectly still, almost afraid that if she moved this moment would evaporate. Her husband kept blazing his hot trail
of kisses until, all of a sudden, Sheba jumped and said, “
George?
”

All he did was chuckle and kiss his way back north, not stopping until he was looking in her eyes once more. “I love you,
my bodacious, bashful-with-a-man, little North St. Louis girl,” he said.

“And I love you with all my heart,” Sheba replied.

They rested in each other’s arms, luxuriating in the closeness of their bodies, for a moment until Sheba said, “I feel like
we should have some music.”

“Umm-hmm,” George answered lazily, and reached over to the radio on the nightstand.

He flipped it on, and Betty Wright’s “Tonight Is the Night That You Make Me a Woman” filled the air.

“What a perfect song,” George murmured, and set out to finish what he had started—making his woman, Sheba Cochran Wilson,
his wife.

Unfortunately for the newlyweds, their honeymoon bliss was short-lived. Just ten days after the wedding, Ray Lyles sent George
a certified letter officially laying claim to the land under the church. It began, “Pursuant to my letter of October 13, 1975,
we intend to reclaim possession of the land granted to Gethsemane Missionary Baptist Church upon expiration of the 100-year
term on June 1, 1976. Inasmuch as there has been no response or counter to our claim, my wife, Betsy Ashton Lyles, the sole
living heir of the grantor, is prepared to assert her right of ownership . . .”

Reading the letter, George was aghast. “How could the church receive a claim like this back in October and not act on it?”
he said. “Who would have gotten it?” Then it struck him. “Cleavon!”

George jumped up from the table so fast that he knocked over his soda and a chair.

“Wait!” Sheba said. “What’s going on?”

“Whatever Cleavon was after in the safe has something to do with this,” George fumed. “And I aim to find out what if I have
to beat it out of him.”

“Baby, you ain’t going nowhere in this state,” Sheba insisted, “especially not over something this big. You can’t deal with
that fool without an attorney and a clear head. We need to call Phoebe right now.”

George called her, and when he finished reading her the letter, all she said was “Hmmm, interesting, very interesting.”

“What do you mean by ‘interesting, very interesting,’ girl? This is serious,” George insisted.

“Pastor, you need to calm down, so that you can handle this like you do everything else—with smooth, prayerful, street-brotha
finesse. Now, that has always been a winning combination in my book.”

George relaxed and said, “I hear you, Miss Lady. Gone ’head and do your thing, and then come back and tell your pastor what
he need to know.”

“I’m coming by to get the letter, then heading on over to Mr. Louis Loomis’s house to get some information that might turn
this thing all the way around.”

Mr. Louis Loomis answered his door wiping his mouth with a napkin in the way that only black men can do. He brushed it across
his mouth, his mustache, and then both hands, patting each one several times before he was through.

“Come on in, baby,” he said. “Just got off the phone with Sheba, who gave me the news. You know that white boy done lost his
mind. And I’d bet some money that Cleavon is somehow tied up in this mess.”

“Yeah, Rev. Wilson and I were thinking that very same thing,” Phoebe said as she followed Mr. Louis Loomis into the kitchen.
She liked his house. Mr. Louis Loomis was a carpenter before he retired, and he could do just about anything with his hands.
And she especially liked his handmade kitchen set. The wooden table was painted bright blue, and it was surrounded by four
chairs in bright green, yellow, red, and orange.

Her grandmother was sitting in the yellow chair, her favorite color, eating a bowl of red beans and rice like it tasted so
good she wanted to cry. She smiled at Phoebe and asked, “Baby, you hungry?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Phoebe smirked at MamaLouise as if to say, “You ain’t foolin’ nobody with your slick self.”

MamaLouise looked back at Phoebe, eyes twinkling, as if to reply, “You don’t stop being a woman just ’cause you get old.”

Phoebe sat down in the red chair as Mr. Louis Loomis handed her a bowl of red beans and rice. Then he refilled his own and,
sitting back down, dipped up a big spoonful and blew on it a few seconds before pulling it in his mouth. MamaLouise poured
Phoebe some iced tea and added a little more to her own glass. Then Mr. Louis Loomis put on his reading glasses and perused
the letter, chewing and sucking on his teeth. “Oooh, babygirl,” he exclaimed, “this boy is plumb crazy. Do they have a case
they can take to court?”

“Maybe,” Phoebe answered him evenly, “but I have a workable plan. I just need your help to set it up. And I’m going to ask
Miss Mozelle to call Queenie Tyler.”

“Queenie Tyler?” Mr. Louis Loomis and MamaLouise both said, looking perplexed.

“I can’t go into it right now,” Phoebe said, “but Queenie Tyler has access to something that can help the church and eliminate
a bunch of foolishness once and for all.”

Mr. Louis Loomis, doing exactly as Phoebe had instructed, put out the word: “You better be at church on Wednesday night, unless
you want your church torn all up by a pack of wolves.”

Wednesday night prayer meeting had been suspended for the emergency, and George walked up into the pulpit not knowing what
he was going to say. He glanced at Sheba, who was wearing a stunning cotton candy pink knit suit, with black rhinestone buttons
and black braided silk trim on the collar, the cuffs, and the bottom edge of the jacket, along with black patent-leather pumps
and a matching envelope shoulder bag. The outfit came from Essie Lee Clothiers, and it had “First Lady” written all over it.