Chapter Excerpt

I

In September 1975, just nine months before Gethsemane Missionary Baptist Church was to celebrate its hundredth anniversary, its pastor, Pastor Clydell Forbes, Sr., died. Some church members cried, others immediately started cooking food for the First Lady and her three boys, and Mr. Louis Loomis, one of the senior deacons in the congregation, said out loud what others were secretly thinking: "Why couldn't that cross-eyed, carrying-on stallion of a preacher hang on till the church was a hundred and one? If the boy had to up and die, at the very least he could have had the common decency to get us through the church's hundredth year."

Pastor Forbes was only in his fifties and hadn't occupied Gethsemane's pulpit all that long; just six years to be exact. No one expected that they'd lose him so soon, and at the worst possible time. A church anniversary without a pastor was like a Sunday worship service with no Hammond organ-the pastor was that central-and the centennial was the most momentous occasion in Gethsemane's history. The 3.pastor was the one who would appoint and supervise the centennial committees, oversee fund-raising, and, most important of all, determine the celebration's theme, developing the sermons to herald and commemorate that special day which, for Gethsemane, was the Second Sunday in June. Now all the planning was brought to a screeching halt until the Forbes family and the church family got through the man's funeral. And it was an ordeal-a long tear-jerking service that became a spectacle when three of his "special-interest" women fell out, crying and screaming with grief, and had to be removed by the ushers. Then the congregation pitched in to help his widow pack up the parsonage and get resettled with her children in a new home. So it was some time before Bert Green, the head of the Deacon Board, thought it appropriate to resume business and called a meeting of the church officers to discuss hiring a new pastor.

As they chewed over the list of potential preachers to interview, Bert's wife, Nettie, walked into the room, carrying a tray loaded down with sandwiches, potato salad, pickles and olives, caramel and pineapple coconut cakes and sweet potato pies cooked by one of the church's five missionary societies. Bert grabbed himself a thick, juicy, home-cooked ham sandwich as his fellow Deacon and Finance Board members heaped their plates high with food. Nettie had gotten an earful of their conversation on her way up from the kitchen, and it hadn't escaped her that the men had quit talking the moment they saw her struggling with that tray in the doorway. Now they all sat there so self-satisfied, with that we-is-in-the- Upper Room look on their faces-the same men whose political head-butting had led to the appointment of Clydell Forbes, as spineless and weak a pastor as the church had ever seen. Helping them to their choice of iced tea or fresh coffee, Nettie pressed her lips together, mad enough to want to shake up these smug, never-did-know-how-to-pick-a-good- preacher men.

So she ignored Bert's signals that they were impatient for her to leave. Avoiding his eyes, she asked, as if butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, "So, who's on this list y'all talking about?"

No one seemed to hear her but Mr. Louis Loomis, the oldest member of both boards, who was chewing on the fat from his ham sandwich. He slipped his reading glasses down to the tip of his nose and resumed where he'd left off. "Like I said, some of these here preachers out of our price range." Bert looked at the paper without acknowledging Nettie, picked up his pen, and asked, "Which ones?" "Rev. Macy Jones, Rev. David O. Clemson, III, Rev. Joe Joseph, Jr...."

Bert started drawing lines through those names until Cleavon Johnson, the head of the Finance Board, stopped him. "Keep Rev. Clemson on the list," he said. "Why?" Mr. Louis Loomis shot back. He and Cleavon Johnson mixed like oil and water. Cleavon might be a business leader who had grabbed hold of the church's purse strings, but to Mr. Louis Loomis he was still the arrogant punk he used to belt-whip. "Because-," Cleavon started to say, then slammed his mouth shut, staring pointedly at Nettie.

Pretending not to notice, Nettie grabbed one of the chairs lined up against the wall, pulled it up to the conference table, and sat down like she belonged there. Then she looked straight at Cleavon and asked, still sounding innocent, "Just what is it that we're looking for in our new pastor?" Cleavon Johnson glared at her, as if to say, "Woman, you way out of line." His "boys" on the Finance Board coughed and cleared their throats, Bert's cue to get his woman straightened out. But Bert locked eyes with Wendell Cates, who was married to Nettie's sister, Viola, and caught his smirking wink.

Wendell's expression told Bert, "Your girl on a roll. Let it be." Bert gave Wendell a sly smile that implied, "I hear you," and sat back to watch his wife give Cleavon a good dose of her down-home medicine.

When it became clear that Bert was not going to chastise his woman, Cleavon decided that he had to intervene. Puffing himself up to his full dignity as head of the Finance Board, he began authoritatively, "Sister Nettie, the senior men of this church, including your husband, have carefully formulated this list based on reliable recommendations. . ." Nettie stole a glance at Mr. Louis Loomis, but all he did was adjust his glasses and crumple his napkin, as if to say, "My name is Bennett and I ain't in it."

Taking that as approval, she interrupted, "What I'm asking is, who-"

Cleavon tried to cut her off. "You'll meet our choices along with the rest of the congregation-" "Or rather, what kind of men are being 'formulated' and 'recommended' to be our new pastor?" she continued, as if he were not talking.

"Sister Nettie," Cleavon scolded, "it's time for you to run along, like a good girl. You have your own proper duties as one of the church's handmaidens. We have ours, and you are stopping us from carrying them out." His voice grew stern. "You are not a duly appointed officer of this church, and until you are I think it would be wise on your part to let the heads of this godly house run this house."

Nettie pushed her chair away from the table, rose, and wiped her hands on her apron. Cleavon thought it was a gesture of defeat, that she was accepting his rebuke. But Nettie wasn't conceding defeat or retreating. She was retrenching as she stacked the dirty dishes and mustered up her sweetest, most chastised-woman-sounding voice to say, "Brother Cleavon, only the Lord knows what moves you. Only the Lord knows what makes you so forceful in what you do and say. But I am thankful that you express yourself so openly. Pray my strength."

As Nettie left, Cleavon nodded self-importantly to the group, not realizing she had just told him that he was in a class by himself and too dumb to try to keep it to himself. Bert and Wendell stifled chuckles, but felt unsettled by Nettie's exit. She had to be up to something more than needling Cleavon Johnson. The encounter felt ominous, leaving them both with the impression that Nettie was throwing down a gauntlet, as a declaration of war. When Nettie got back to the kitchen, she slammed her tray down on the counter so hard that she almost broke some of the heavy, mint green glass cups, plates, and saucers that were always in plentiful supply at church.

Her sister Viola jumped up, startled, and Nettie cussed, "I be doggoned and banned from heaven!" "What's all this banging and ugly talking?" Sylvia Vicks demanded. "Nettie Green, you ain't out in them streets. You up in church. And you just best start remembering that." "Sylvia, pray my strength, 'cause I am so mad at our men up in that room." Nettie pointed toward the ceiling, shaking her head in disgust. "I mean, they should have learned something worthwhile about hiring a preacher after Rev. Forbes. But they not even talking about character and morals-" She stopped herself-"Forgive me, Jesus, for speaking ill of the dead"-then continued, "Lord only knows how much money they wasted bailing Clydell Forbes out of his women troubles-"

"What 'women troubles,' Nettie Green?" asked Cleavon's wife, Katie Mae Johnson. "I never heard about the church spending money like that. With Cleavon on the Deacon Board and being head of the Finance Board, I think I would have heard if he was making payoffs to errant women." "Humph," Sylvia interjected. "Don't know how you missed all that, with the way Pastor Forbes had such a weakness for loose-tail women in booty-clutching dresses-bigger and fatter the booty, the better, I hear. And sad thing, Sister Forbes had a big fat rumpa-seat hangin' off the back of her. Don't know why he wanted all those other women, seeing what he had laying up next to him in his own house." "Y'all, we should not be up in this church, talking all in Sister Forbes's business and up under her clothes like that. It ain't right, and it sho' ain't Christian." Viola sighed out loud and raised her hands high in exasperation. "Katie Mae, it's Christian charity to tell the truth about the truth."

"And you should have known something, Katie Mae," Sylvia added. "We all keep telling you that Cleavon keep too much from you. He your husband, and all he ever tell you is that you think too much and read too much and always working your self up over some nonsense. Then he go out in the streets, and when he come home, be acting like he just got through passing out the two fish and five loaves of bread to the multitudes."

Katie Mae sneaked and wiped her eyes with the edge of her apron. Sometimes even your best friends didn't truly understand the magnitude of your pain. She sniffed once and put on a brave face before saying, "Aww, Sylvia, you can't judge my Cleavon by your Melvin. Melvin Sr. tells you pretty much everything and lets you run your house. But in Cleavon's home, the woman is beneath the man. He believe in the strict Bible ways."

Sylvia had to stop herself from quoting one of Mr. Louis Loomis's observations about Cleavon's "strict Bible ways" mess. "That boy always pontificating about a woman being beneath a man 'cause his tail always so intent on being on top of one."

"Well, it don't matter what Cleavon believe," Nettie said. "The fact is, he used church money to get the Reverend out of trouble. But it ain't just the money that makes me so mad-it's our men using they man pride and they man rules to pick our preachers, acting like I committed a sin just by asking them a question. Look at us down here in this hot kitchen, fixing food and washing dishes, while they upstairs eating, talking, laughing, and acting like they the Apostles. This is our church too. It just ain't right. And I ain't gone stand for it no more."

"But what you propose to do?" Viola asked. "We not on any of those boards. So I don't see how we gone select a preacher."

"That's right," Katie Mae said. "You doing all this big bad talk and you don't even know how to go from A to B." Nettie took off her apron and closed her eyes, praying for direction. When the inspiration came, she snapped her fingers. "Viola, Sylvia, Katie Mae-here's what we'll do. Our mens thought they could put me in my place. So what we gone use is our women's place to make them do right. We're gone get us a woman's secret weapon."

"And what in the world would that be?" Sylvia asked. "Who is more like it," Nettie stated. "We need someone who's an expert when it comes to sniffing out a man. Someone who can tell us which one of those preachers on they list is decent. And I know just the secret-weapon girl who can help us. My neighbor, Sheba Cochran."

"Sheba Cochran?" Katie Mae snapped, incensed that Nettie would even form her mouth to utter Sheba's name in her presence. "The heifer with all them baby daddies? Why that party-hearty club girl used to be one of Cleavon's women!" For a moment, none of them breathed. Ever since high school, Cleavon had believed he was "fine as wine and every woman's kind,"and even though he was staring forty in the behind, he was still running around and chasing tail like his life depended on it. And no matter what Cleavon did, Katie Mae defended him. It infuriated her friends, but if Katie Mae pretended he acted right, they felt obliged to hold their peace. Now the truth was out.

"I didn't mean to hurt you," Nettie said softly. "And you have a right to be angry." "Why would you or any other married woman even want to cut your eyes at that thang?" "Katie Mae, there's something you should know. Cleavon lied to Sheba." Katie Mae opened her mouth, but Nettie went on before she could speak. "Cleavon met Sheba over in East St. Louis at the Mothership Club. He claimed to be legally separated from you, and she honestly believed his marriage was over. So did I, until I learned he was still spending some nights with you. When I told Sheba, she broke it off. Remember Cleavon's black eye?" Katie Mae nodded.

"Sheba did that, while she was cussing him out. I've known Sheba since we were kids, Katie Mae. She's never purposefully gone with a married man." Tears streamed down Katie Mae's face. She was hurt, angry, and convicted in her heart all at the same time. She knew how Cleavon operated. And her grandmother constantly told her: "Baby, just a 'cause you let Cleavon run you, don't mean nobody else will. You better understand that there more folks than not who want to set his tail straight." Sylvia handed Katie Mae a paper napkin and then gave Nettie the eye, hoping she could think of something to soften the blow she had just delivered. Nettie got the message and went to Katie Mae, taking both of her hands in her own. "I'm so sorry," she said.

When Katie Mae regained her composure, Nettie added, "Please trust me about Sheba. Cleavon picked Clydell Forbes, and he ain't picking our new pastor. But the fact is, none of these men-including Bert, Wendell, and Melvin Sr.-have the sense to find a man who can lead the church, bring us together for the anniversary, and do right by the women. It's got to be up to us."

Katie Mae sighed heavily. Nettie was right. "And for that we need Sheba," Sylvia said. "Yes," Viola chimed in. "That Sheba knows men like I know my name. If one of these preachers on they list is bad, she'll find him out." "And if one is a good man?" Katie Mae asked. "Then she'll know that, too," Nettie answered. "She the one always told me to quit worrying about Bert. Said, with a good man, if you take care of him right, he ain't going nowhere. But with a bad man, ain't nothing you can do. Whatever he looking to find out in the street ain't about you. It's just some of his own mess that he ain't ready to deal with." Katie Mae sighed again, as if taking Nettie's words to heart.

"So, are we agreed?" Viola asked. They all clasped hands to seal the bargain. "Now how do we plan to get Sheba next to these preachers?" Sylvia said. "Some of them slick as slick oil and liable to slip from a tight spot. And what if our men catch her East St. Louis, love-to-party-self up in church? One of them bound to ask what got Sheba up so early on Sunday morning." "Hmmm," Nettie said, turning it over in her mind. "I think we'll have to leave it to Sheba to get to the preachers, and we'll each have to find a way to handle our men ourselves." "Okay, I can see that part. But, Nettie, will Sheba help us?"

"I bet she will. She'll see it as a challenge." "Wait a minute!" said Katie Mae. "What if Sheba decides she wants to lay up with one of those preachers?" She paused, and her eyes got big and round. "And, and what if one of those preachers real low-down and try to get some from her, when even she don't want to give it to him." "Katie Mae, why you all of a sudden so worried about Sheba Cochran? I thought you said she was nothing but a party-hearty hussy."

"I did. But I don't want to have a hand in her sinful ways." "You won't. If Sheba will help us, it'll be for her own good reasons. Look, the girl is tough-she's raised four kids alone. I've seen her box down her old men when she needed her child support payments. And do you think preachers are rougher than those men she meets out in the clubs?" "Yeah," Viola said, laughing, "if she do want one of those old men, she can have him. And that'll be between her, her sheets, that man, and the Lord-and then we'll know for sure that preacher ain't worth a poot." "Shoot, I say let the chile have her fun," Sylvia agreed. "It'll be worth it to keep some trifling no-good thang out of our pulpit."

Katie Mae closed her eyes and clasped her hands to her chest. She hoped that the Lord would understand and forgive their wayward souls.

Sylvia looked over at Katie Mae agonizing and praying over Sheba Cochran, when what she needed to pray and agonize over was that no-count, trouble-causing man of hers.

Nettie had good reason to be worried. Two weeks later, the search committee met again, only to discover that Cleavon Johnson had gone behind their backs and invited a Rev. Blue Patterson to interview for the pastorship. Blue Patterson had recently taken over what Cleavon claimed was an up-and-coming church in Pine Bluff, Arkansas, and was making quite a name for himself in that community. Bert, Wendell, Melvin Sr., and Mr. Louis Loomis had never even heard of Blue Patterson or his church, which seemed odd, considering his memorable first name.

"Cleavon," Melvin Sr. pointed out, after digesting as much of Cleavon's jibber-jabber as he could stand. "Sylvia's uncle belongs to one of the largest Church of God in Christ churches in Pine Bluff, and he does all the robes for the preachers and choirs in the area at his cleaners. If this Blue Patterson was that much of a top dog, Sylvia's uncle would surely know something about the man."

"I wasn't aware that your wife's kinfolks are so much in the mix that they know everything about everybody there is to know in Pine Bluff," Cleavon said in a nice-nasty voice. "Maybe we need to put Sylvia's Uncle COGIC on the case to hire a preacher for our church, since he can tell everything about a man just from cleaning his funky clothes." Melvin Sr. started to rise out of his seat, but checked himself when he felt Wendell's hand on his arm.

"Well, as for me," Mr. Louis Loomis said, "I don't know a soul down in Pine Bluff. But I do know that Blue boy ain't all you saying he is. I have his application right here in my hand, and he has been at his present church for only six months. Before that he was at a smaller church in Little Rock for four months. And now he want to move again? Cleavon, we need to leave Blue Patterson right where he is-somewhere out there in the blue."

"He's coming for an interview whether you or anybody else on this committee likes it or not," Cleavon snapped, slamming his hand on the table, hoping to make it clear that he wasn't playin'. Rev. Patterson has gone through all kinds of trouble to be able to come to St. Louis, and it will make the church look bad if we up and withdraw this invitation 'cause of something you don't like in his resume." 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, bigshot 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-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, culling 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.

All throughout the service, Nettie kept trying to find Sheba Cochran without drawing Bert's attention to herself. She knew Sheba was in the sanctuary, but couldn't locate the girl for the life of her. She was looking for Sheba so hard that when the sermon began, she could barely concentrate on what Rev. Blue Patterson was saying. She, Viola, Sylvia, and even Katie Mae had promised to pay close attention to the content of each applicant's text. They agreed that they had to avoid getting carried away with the emotions raised by a sermon-by the man's voice, how he moved when he preached, how well his robe fit him-to the point that they forgot to think about whether or not the sermon was anything worth hearing.

When Nettie finally got her mind off finding Sheba long enough to listen to Rev. Blue Patterson's preaching, she no-ticed that he was doing a lot of hollering and screaming. And when Nettie fine-tuned her ears to the actual words, she heard Rev. Patterson say, "Ummm, chutch. When God woke me up this morning and started me on my way, He said, 'Blue, you tell these people that they are charged to obey you or else they's got to deal with Me.' " Nettie couldn't believe that Blue Patterson would stand there and let that garbage spew out of his mouth and all over the congregation. He was, as Nettie's mother, MamaLouise, later described him, "determined to show his rusty behind to the whole church." But to Nettie's surprise, certain members of the congregation actually seemed to be caught up in the sermon, making her wonder what she must have missed. Cleavon Johnson, who seemed especially pleased, was wearing a self-satisfied smirk.

Blue Patterson dabbed at his bald spot with a handkerchief. It glistened with beads of sweat, highlighting its presence in the middle of the half-moon natural that wrapped around the bottom of his head. Then he pulled the microphone off the podium, pacing back and forth for dramatic effect, and in a voice he must have believed mimicked the voice of God, bellowed, "Geth-se-ma-ne. Geth-se-ma-ne. Blue is my ser-vant. Obey my ser-vant or else." Up in the balcony, Phoebe, Melvin Jr., Rosie, and Jackson Williams were torn up with laughter. Nobody tried to shush them. Viola leaned toward Nettie and whispered, "Girl, the people on the front row show do need to move, so they don't get hit when that big bolt of lightning comes out of nowhere to strike him dead."

Nettie turned to Bert to ask what he thought about the sermon. But Bert was sound asleep, with his head back and his mouth open, snoring faintly. When the choir stood up and prepared to march out for the benediction, Nettie nudged him, whispering, "Thank you, Lord" when she had trouble waking him. She figured that if Bert was sleeping this hard, he would oppose doing anything for Rev. Blue Patterson, other than giving him a plate of food and enough gas money to drive back home.

She poked at him again, and Bert woke up in the middle of a snore, saying, "Wha . . . wha . . . inning is it?" As soon as the benediction was given, Bert and Nettie got in the receiving line at the front of the church, where Rev. Patterson stood greeting the members. And it was there, after searching for her all morning, that Nettie finally found Sheba Cochran. She was the first one in line, glittering in a tight black rhinestone-studded dress with a scoop neck that was more suitable for the Mothership Club than church. Sheba Cochran stood five-foot-five and had a deep cinnamon brown complexion. She wasn't beautiful like Katie Mae Johnson, but she was just as cute as she could be. Sylvia always said that Sheba's best asset was that big round, onion-shaped behind sitting up high on her "little thin-shaped self." And Sheba was funny, with a good heart and a whole lot of smarts. She was a devoted mother who took good care of her four children all by herself, thanks to her full-time job at the post office and a side gig doing taxes. She was a good neighbor and a loving friend.

With some maneuvering, Nettie landed a spot three people away from Sheba, who was chatting comfortably with Rev. Blue Patterson. Behind her, the people in line were growing restive, frowning and whispering, "That hussy in the hot-mama dress know she need to move on. And her self know she not saved." A little farther back, Cleavon Johnson stood scowling at the sight of Sheba in church, which made Nettie smile. "If you knew why Sheba is here, you'd be cussing," she thought.

Rev. Blue Patterson didn't seem inclined to have Sheba move on. For all his hollering at the congregation about sin and sinning, he was grinning and ogling Sheba, making Nettie wonder if Blue Patterson himself had even heard a word he said. As if to reward Rev. Patterson for indulging her in conversation, Sheba gave him a dazzling smile, put her black, satin-gloved hand daintily in his, and sighed deeply, as if the man and his sermon had really put something on her. When Nettie heard that old rascal tell Sheba the Lord had led him to instruct her to meet him in his office after the church dinner for prayer and private counseling, she said, "Thank you, Jesus," right out loud, before she could catch herself.

Bert frowned and said, "Why you acting like you getting the Holy Ghost, standing here watching that jackleg preacher act like the clown he is over Sheba, and service been over with?"

Nettie didn't blink an eye. She said, "Sometimes, when I think about how good the Lord has been to me, I just have to thank Him. Don't matter if I'm sitting in service or standing in line waiting to shake somebody's hand. I just have to forget where I am and praise Him."

Bert didn't say a word to Nettie. He simply narrowed his eyes at her again before grunting, "Humph," just to let her know she wasn't fooling no-body.

All during the dinner, Bert kept close watch on his wife and her friends, thinking that whatever was up, Sheba Cochran was right in the middle of it. For why else would Sheba be at church today? The girl only came to church on Christmas and Easter Sunday, dragging her four kids behind her, looking all uncomfortable in stiff new dress clothes and shoes she had bought solely for those holidays. But today wasn't Christmas or Easter. It was just a regular Sunday in September- more than three months in advance of one of Sheba's church days.

When the desserts were being set out on the serving tables, Nettie, Viola, Sylvia, and Katie Mae all got up and went to the bathroom together. Sheba, who was sitting at the guest pastor's table, saw them leave and followed, pausing for a second when she passed by Cleavon, just to slice right through him with her eyes. By the time Bert returned from the dessert table, carrying two big pieces of lemon coconut cake for himself and Nettie, the women had disappeared behind the rest room door.

The door had barely closed when Nettie blurted, "Tell us! What did you find out?" "Yeah, Sheba," Katie Mae said in a nasty voice. "What can you tell us that is helpful for our church?" Sheba resisted the urge to stab her eyes into Katie Mae as she had done her husband. She knew Katie Mae's little attitude wasn't about anything but Cleavon, with his jive, no-good, lying self. Sheba couldn't stand Cleavon Johnson. And if Katie Mae wasn't always snubbing her, she would have set the record straight on what really happened between herself and Cleavon-not that much of anything. "So, you gone meet the Reverend up in the office?" Nettie asked, hoping that Katie Mae wouldn't keep talking and make Sheba so mad that she changed her mind about helping them.

"Nettie," Sheba said, looking at her like she was crazy, "did you see Blue Patterson's hair?" Nettie nodded, as Sylvia broke out laughing, saying, "How could she not see that?" "I know," Viola added. "His hair convinced me that he don't really listen to the Lord all that much. 'Cause I know the Lord has said something about his hair on many occasions." "Blue, Blue," Sylvia said, imitating Rev. Patterson. "Your hair, son. It's Me. Your hair, your hair."

"Sylvia, you know you need to quit," Nettie said, laughing. "No, this whole church need to quit," Sheba said very seriously. "Y'all need to quit fooling around with that trifling Negro, who here lying and acting like he's a big-shot preacher, when he know he ain't nowhere close to that. He did all that hollering and screaming, talking junk about how he been called to lead this church. And yet he didn't even think enough of this church to bother with how he looked. The hair said it all. Why, that Negro didn't even have the decency to put some grease on his hands."

Viola nodded. "Come to think of it, he did have some rough and ashy hands. Make you wonder about how bad his feet must look."

Katie Mae grimaced. "Ugh, don't make us think about his feet. We just got through eating."

"And the clothes," Sheba said. "The fool didn't even have on a decent suit or real leather shoes. Now, if his church was all that he saying it is, would it have a pastor running around looking like Bozo the Clown?"

Everybody shook their heads. Sheba was on target. No self-respecting congregation would want a pastor representing them who looked like that. "So," Sheba continued, "I ain't wasting my time with that Negro. Because it don't take a whiff of church-fan-air to figure out that he ain't worth jack." Sheba rolled her eyes as she asked Nettie, "Girl, what made Bert an' them bring Blue Patterson here for anyway? Gethsemane may not be a big fancy church, but it got enough going for it that y'all can do better than him." "Well," Katie Mae answered, "Cleavon told me Rev. Patterson had good references."

Sheba just closed her eyes and sighed. Cleavon needed to be reined in before he ran this church so far into the ground, they would be looking right into the devil's living room. She said, "I don't care if he got a reference from the Rev. Jesse Jackson. Blue Patterson is a chump and a two-bit hustler playing church-and playing a very dangerous game with the Lord. Shoot, y'all let him up in here as y'all's preacher, I know I ain't coming here to worship no more for Christmas and Easter."

Sheba turned down her mouth in disgust. "Nettie, tell Bert to send him packing. And if I were y'all, I wouldn't even give him gas money."

Copyright © 2003 by Michele Andrea Bowen