Second Sunday (6 page)

“What you doing?” Nettie asked.

“Going over on Melvin Sr.’s job and getting his tail straight before he even has a
chance
to think about going wrong and voting to hire that devil,” Sylvia answered. She started backing the car out of the parking
space so fast that she almost hit the old drunk man who was sitting on a crate in the lot, collecting half-eaten burgers and
fries, and a quarter here and there, to get “som’in’ to drank.”

“Wait!” Katie Mae said. “Do you think we need to fight with our men right now? Maybe Rev. Clemson won’t even want the job
after all that trouble with Sheba.”

“No,” Nettie said firmly. “We are not waiting on anything. We are going straight to our men about this. They need to know
exactly what they have done by inviting that devil into our church home.”

“But Cleavon . . . ,” Katie Mae started to protest. The last thing she wanted to deal with was Cleavon after he found out
that Rev. Clemson had been exposed by Sheba Cochran, of all people. The tension in her house would be so awful, she would
be afraid to breathe, for fear that he’d hit the roof.

“But Cleavon, nothing,” Sylvia said. She put the car in reverse and started backing out again.

This time the drunk man grabbed his crate and ran to the other side of the lot. When he knew he was in a safe spot, he looked
at them, pointed a finger to his head, and twirled it around to signify, “Y’all is crazy.”

Cleavon banged on the conference table, furious that the committee didn’t even want to discuss hiring Rev. David Clemson.

“Man, if you bang on that table just one more time,” Melvin Sr. said, “you will leave this meeting missing a hand.”

He was through with the subject of David Clemson. Sylvia had come down to their catering business and given a performance
that could have won her an Academy Award. He was just thankful no customers were around when she jumped up in his face and
said, “Melvin Earl Vicks, Sr., if you hire David O. Clemson, III, you got to get out of my house.”

Cleavon pounded the table again to let Melvin Sr. know that he wouldn’t be pushed around. Melvin Sr. got up out of his chair,
walked around the conference table, and snatched Cleavon up by his suit collar.

“I told you to stop. And you ain’t hiring that trash to run my church.”

Cleavon raised his hand to take a swing at Melvin Sr., but Bert grabbed his arm and stopped him cold. “Why can’t you ever
quit while you’re ahead?” he said. “We not hiring David Clemson, Cleavon, and that is that.”

“Y’all a bunch of punks,” Cleavon spat out, and his cousin Rufus started to rise.

“Sit your butt down, Rufus,” Bert said. “Melvin Sr. will mop up this floor with the both of you. And especially you, Rufus.”

Rufus Johnson sat down and scowled. Bert Green, Melvin Vicks, Sr., and Wendell Cates got on his last nerve. Sometimes he wished
he had not let Cleavon pay off some of his bills, because he hated being on this committee.

“Oh, so you and your boys gone let a perfectly good preacher slip right through your fingers on account of that trollop Sheba
Cochran?” Cleavon pressed. “I talked to Clemson about her, and he told me Sheba begged him to meet her at that house and practically
waylaid him on the porch she was so eager to get next to him. Said she’d never experienced a preacher before, and—”

Mr. Louis Loomis had remained above the fray, chewing on a fat bologna sandwich with lettuce, tomatoes, cheddar cheese, mustard,
pickle, and red onions on it. Now he set it down and took a sip of iced tea.

“Boy,” he said, wiping his mouth and hands, “how you have formed your mouth to say that mess is beyond my comprehension. Remember,
I was there. And if the Lord had not put a temperance on my spirit, I would have gone in that house and pistol-whipped that
Negro,
after
I gave him a good pimp-slapping.”

Cleavon opened his mouth to argue, but couldn’t—Mr. Louis Loomis was a pretty irrefutable witness. All he could do was sneer,
“Pistol-whipping? Pimp-slapping? I would have sold my mama’s mink stole to have seen that, old man.”

“I hope Vernine can survive without that doggone stole, ’cause you just might get to see that, son,” Mr. Louis Loomis said
matter-of-factly.

“That’s enough,” said Bert. “I motion that this committee vote NOT to hire Rev. David O. Clemson, III, as our pastor. Does
anyone second?”

“I second the motion,” said Melvin Sr., his ears still smarting from Sylvia’s blessing-out.

“It has been moved and properly seconded that we will not hire Rev. Clemson,” Bert said. “All in favor say aye.”

Everyone on the committee but Cleavon and his cousin Rufus raised their hands.

“Nays?”

Cleavon and Rufus raised their hands defiantly.

“The ayes have it,” Bert said. “We are not hiring David Clemson.”

“But who are we going to hire?” Wendell asked.

“I don’t know about hiring,” Mr. Louis Loomis said, “but I do know that we need to interview this man.”

He pushed a resume across the table to Wendell, who read it over quickly, nodded, and passed it back to Mr. Louis Loomis.

“Who is it?” Bert asked.

“Rev. George Wilson from Memphis, Tennessee,” Mr. Louis Loomis answered. “Seems like his first letter of application got lost,
so he sent us another one.”

“Good thing he wrote again,” Bert said, trying not to look accusingly at Cleavon. He was so glad that he had stopped Cleavon
from going through the church’s mail and assigned the job to Mr. Louis Loomis. He read over the resume and letter, then started
grinning.

“Looks like we have a winner here. Rev. Wilson has been a pastor for eleven years. He has held mortgage-burning ceremonies
for two of the churches he pastored, and he has a glowing letter of recommendation from Rev. Theophilus Simmons.”

“When he coming?” Melvin Sr. asked. “Rev. Simmons is
the man
among preachers in St. Louis. And if he’s recommended Rev. Wilson, the only thing I want to know is, when he coming.”

“Let me see that,” Cleavon said, sucking on his teeth. Bert handed him the resume and recommendation, which Cleavon studied,
frowning. He didn’t like Rev. Simmons because Rev. Forbes never liked Rev. Simmons. Theophilus Simmons always blocked Forbes’s
power plays when the black ministers in St. Louis decided to sponsor a political candidate or participate in a citywide project.

Cleavon turned down his lips and sucked on his teeth some more. “I’m not impressed. So, he paid off two little country churches
down in Tennessee. Anybody can do that.”

“Both churches were the same size as our church. And anybody
can’t
do that—or, let’s say, none of our other pastoral candidates could do it,” Bert replied.

“Well, that’s still not enough to warrant an interview. He’s a small-town country boy. We need a man who’s sophisticated enough
to be a big-city pastor, like my other candidate, Rev. Earl Hamilton.”

“Rev. Wilson already has an interview date set,” Mr. Louis Loomis said evenly. “Mr. Chair,” he addressed Bert formally, “the
Lord led me to invite Rev. Wilson for the interview. I apologize for not following protocol and asking you to issue the invite.
But there are times when I, as a child of the King, am compelled to do as He wills.”

“Well, Mr. Louis Loomis,” Bert said, trying not to laugh, “the Lord just laid it on my heart to honor your actions.”

“Since you didn’t follow protocol, we need to
un
invite this country bumpkin,” Cleavon said.

“Can’t do that, Cleavon,” Mr. Louis Loomis said. “The man has already made arrangements to come all the way to St. Louis,
and we can’t very well take back the invite now. It would make the church look bad.”

Bert, Wendell, and Melvin Sr. started laughing. Memphis, like Pine Bluff, Arkansas, was a hop, skip, and a jump from St. Louis.

“Yeah, Cleavon,” Melvin Sr. said. “If we couldn’t run the risk of insulting Bozo the Clown—I mean, Rev. Patterson—then we
certainly can’t risk insulting a preacher with a recommendation from Rev. Theophilus Simmons.”

“So, when he coming?” Wendell said again.

Rev. George Wilson eased his silver and white Cutlass Supreme into the parking space marked “Pastor,” then got out and leaned
back against the car to survey the church. Gethsemane was nearly a hundred years old, and it looked venerable, with its sturdy
old red brick, well-maintained stained-glass windows, and heavy walnut wood doors. Its solidity hinted at a formidable history
and a favorable future, despite its turbulent present.

Bert Green, as head of the Deacon Board, greeted him at the door with a firm handshake and a warm smile. He took him upstairs
to meet the search committee members, most of whom were immediately impressed with Rev. Wilson. They found him to be personable
and down-to-earth, with a whole lot of horse sense. He also had a good sense of humor and was a well-read biblical scholar.
When he was introduced to the congregation, the ladies were struck by what a fine-looking man he was. He was forty-three and
nicely built, and had light, tobacco brown skin and deep golden brown eyes that sparkled when he smiled.

The search committee had agreed that each candidate should be allowed to conduct the Sunday service according to his personal
taste, so that the congregation could decide whether or not they liked his style. One way that Rev. Wilson distinguished himself
from the other candidates was by the African stole he wore, which he told everyone was made of Kente cloth from Ghana. And
then he got the church fired up when, at the end of the first of the senior choir’s A and B selections, he came out of the
pulpit, kissed the hand of the lead soloist, Sister Hershey Jones, and said, “Sister, your voice is a blend of Aretha Franklin
and Sister Willie Mae Ford Smith, with some extra spice the Lord bestowed solely upon you. I want you to pick another song
and let the anointing of the Holy Ghost bless this congregation through your elegant voice. Praise God!”

Hershey Jones sang Andre Crouch’s “Through It All,” and service got so charged up that Viola whispered to Nettie, “Good thing
Hershey is saved and don’t touch alcohol. ’Cause she so hot, if she drank, she’d light right up.”

Nettie laughed and thought that Rev. Wilson looked awfully natural sitting in the pastor’s chair.

After the service, everybody was talking about his sermon, “Black Folks and the Twenty-third Psalm.” When they were downstairs
at the dinner, Katie Mae’s grandmother walked up to Cleavon and said, “Didn’t you just love the way the Reverend broke it
down on Psalm Twenty-three? I just wanted to throw my purse up at that young man and shout out, ‘PREACH, PREACH’ when he said,
‘Walking through the valley of the shadow of death sometimes means that you walking in the midst of folks who are intent on
courting evil, and at your expense. But you don’t have to fear that ’cause God is always right with you when you walking that
valley.”

The last thing Cleavon wanted to hear was an excerpt from George Wilson’s sermon. He gave Katie Mae’s grandmother a tight
smile and tried to ease away before she could say any more.

Rev. Wilson, who had been standing nearby, overheard Katie Mae’s grandmother and walked up to them. He put an arm around her
shoulder and said, “Now, you are my kind of member—quoting from my sermon. Not
talking
about it—you up in here
quoting
it. Sister, I’m scared of you.”

“I don’t mind scarin’ a man, long as I don’t scare him off,” the eighty-year-old replied sassily.

George leaned down and kissed her, which made her grin and say, “Oh, Reverend, you know you need to quit.”

“Naw, Sister, you know
you
need to quit. ’Cause you something else, I can see that right now,” he said, reaching out his hand to Cleavon for a palm
slap.

Cleavon left George’s hand hanging in midair, unslapped. He turned away and started talking to a woman in a dress that was
way too tight and short for church,
or
the club, for that matter.

When George looked hurt and confused, Katie Mae’s grandmother said, “Look out for that there Cleavon. That boy ain’t right.
And he’ll do a whole lot of dirt at your expense.”

With the words of his own sermon ringing in his ears, George offered a silent prayer. He knew that Cleavon was the kind of
enemy who cast such a deathly shadow that he would need the Lord by his side whenever he came upon this man.

Ever since Rev. Forbes’s death, Sunday mornings at Gethsemane had been missing something. Not that Forbes was an ideal pastor—far
from it—but he could preach a good sermon, and the members were used to his ways. Over the previous few Sundays the members
had felt like they’d been invited to a fancy dinner at which the host hadn’t prepared enough even to nip their hunger, let
alone fill them up.

Rev. George Wilson’s service had been out of the ordinary, giving them spiritual food so down-home and good, it stuck to the
ribs of their soul. As far as most of the members were concerned, this man belonged in their pulpit. Yet, despite this seemingly
good fit, Nettie and her group were cautious and wanted to make sure that George was all that he seemed, not just a clever
and smooth game player like Rev. Clemson.

Sheba agreed with them wholeheartedly. But for her the most troublesome thing about Rev. Wilson was that she couldn’t find
a way to get next to him after the service or at the dinner. By the third time Sheba sashayed past Rev. Wilson at the dinner
without any results, she gave that up and started praying for a little help.

The Lord delivered the answer to Sheba’s prayer in record time, and He even threw in a bonus by making a way out of no-way
that led straight to Pompey’s Rib Joint #Two on Monday afternoon. Sheba spotted George Wilson as soon as she stepped up in
Pompey’s. He was alone and sitting at a table by the window, reading a thick book. She took a deep breath, then walked into
the restaurant and right over to him, making sure there was a big sexy smile on her face.

“Aren’t you Rev. Wilson, the guest preacher over at Gethsemane Missionary Baptist Church?” Sheba asked, with a little swing
of her hips and sassy tilt of her head.