Come Sunday Morning (23 page)

Virgil stood erect and ran, stumbling up the center aisle of the balcony. The shadow of a man running out of the dark balcony was the only thing that could be seen from the choir stand. He charged down the stairs, partially covering his face with a denim jacket, and pushed aside two small boys at the base. The foyer was still empty as he crossed to the exit of the church.

Virgil tripped on the cement steps and rolled to the ground. After regaining his footing he ran to Hezekiah Cleaveland Avenue and vanished among the houses and cars on a quiet side street.

Samantha broke free from Dino, who was trying to protect her body from danger. She ran up the steps to her husband. Some members of the choir had dashed from the stand, while others crouched and wept behind seats. The organist sat frozen in fear on the bench as several people ran, overwhelmed and screaming, out the double doors.

Samantha dropped and cradled Hezekiah's head on the arm of her suit. Her bracelet sparkled from the light in the church's stained glass. She screamed hysterically. “Hezekiah, baby. Hezekiah, don't die! I need you.” She lovingly placed her head on his chest which caused blood to smear on the collar she had so carefully selected. “Hezekiah! Please, God, don't take him from me!”

After a respectable moment Willie Mitchell and Rev. Percy Pryce gently separated Samantha from Hezekiah's body and briskly escorted her, crying and thrashing, out the side door. Hezekiah's lifeless body lay at the top of the steps, clutching the microphone, while Dino tried unsuccessfully to resuscitate him.

Jasmine had not attended church that morning. Samantha had instructed Etta to let her sleep in. She did not want Jasmine to witness her father's assassination.

 

By two o'clock the church grounds were teeming with police cars and news vans. Satellite dishes pointed to the heavens, and high heels stumbled over electrical cords crisscrossing the parking lot. The police had emptied the sanctuary of parishioners, and the double doors were cordoned off with yellow tape. Members were now milling in the halls and outside the church, giving and receiving comfort. The final word had already spread that the pastor was dead.

Cynthia Pryce retreated to a far corner of the parking lot. Her hands shook as she dialed Phillip Thornton's number.

“Hello, this is Phillip. I'm not available right now. Please leave your name, number, and the reason for your call, and I'll call you back as soon as I can.” Then came the beep.

“Phillip, this is Cynthia,” she whispered through tears. “Call me as soon as you get this message. Hezekiah is dead. Someone shot him this morning. I want you to stop the story. Do you understand? Do not print that story. If you print it, I'll deny I ever talked to you.”

Several reporters for the local and national news networks, with microphones and cameras in tow, cornered members for their reaction to the tragedy. Television programming around the country had been interrupted to report on the assassination of Pastor Hezekiah T. Cleaveland. The hats, fresh haircuts, and pain of New Testament Cathedral were beamed live to televisions throughout the country.

The television monitors in Fellowship Hall had been turned off by the time the police had arrived. Folding chairs were clustered in small groups to accommodate mourners around the room. By then, most of the tears had turned to sobs of disbelief and an occasional outburst of anguish.

Scarlet Shackelford took the news of the pastor's death especially hard. The hat she wore that morning was now bouncing on the table she pounded with an open palm as she cried inconsolably. The paramedics were summoned from the parking lot and gave her a sedative to relieve the shock. Her thoughts were of her daughter, who never knew the identity of her father, and the father, who never knew his child. That morning the astonishing realization that she actually still loved him took her fragile world by surprise.

Hattie sat nearby as the paramedics checked Scarlet's blood pressure. “That's all right, Scarlet. Let it out. It's going to be all right,” she said, rubbing her back. Hattie was unable to block the emotions of the crying woman in her arms. After a while she stopped trying. The pain Scarlet Shackelford felt now was very appropriate.

The covered body of Hezekiah was quickly removed from the church. Cameramen scrambled to get a shot of the gurney being lifted into the rear of the van. Women crying, with children clinging to their thighs, provided a dramatic backdrop for the parting shots of the vehicle.

On the sofa inside Hezekiah's office, Samantha sobbed into a crumpled tissue. The suit jacket Hezekiah had worn that morning was draped over her lap, and blood from his head had dried on her sleeve. Reverend Pryce and Cynthia sat on either side of her. Somewhere in the corridor between the sanctuary and the office, Samantha's tears had become real. Yes, she wanted him dead, but they had shared many years together, and he was the father of her daughter.

Samantha had called home shortly after being taken to the church office.

“Jasmine, honey,” she said. “This is Mommy. Something terrible has happened.”

At that moment Jasmine looked out her bedroom window and saw three police cars, with red and blue lights flashing, roll up the long driveway toward the house.

She jumped from the bed and cried into the phone, “Mommy, the police are here! What's going on? I'm afraid.”

“There's nothing to be afraid of, darling. Everything is going to be all right,” Samantha said gently.

“Where's Daddy? I want to talk to my daddy.”

Samantha paused before responding. For the first time she questioned her decision. “You can't talk to Daddy right now, honey.”

Jasmine's voice began to tremble. “Why not? Something has happened. Why won't you tell me what is happening?”

“I'll be home as soon as I can, honey, and I'll tell you everything.”

“Tell me now. Is Daddy all right? Tell Daddy I need him to come home to me now.”

Samantha took a deep breath before she spoke. “Daddy has been shot, Jasmine. He's dead.”

Jasmine dropped the phone and fell to the floor, screaming. Etta heard her from downstairs and immediately ran to her room. Samantha then broke the news to Etta and instructed her not to turn on any television in the house. “I'll be home as soon as possible. Don't leave Jasmine alone.”

A police officer was stationed at the door leading to Hezekiah's office with instructions not to let anyone in, especially the media. Willie Mitchell, Reverend Pryce, and Cynthia remained in the room the entire time. The full weight of what had just occurred kept Reverend Mitchell pacing the floor. Samantha had requested that he stay with her. She wanted to keep a watchful eye on him. She didn't want him to panic and speak to the ravenous reporters around the scene. He tried to remain calm, but all could see that he was rapidly losing control. Samantha told him to sit down and drink a glass of water.

Reverend Pryce did not speak while in the office. His thoughts flashed to the words of his wife, Cynthia. This could not be a coincidence. He lamented the plight of the beautiful woman on the couch. Percy periodically gave Samantha a tissue, then retreated to the opposite side of the room. With what he knew, he could not look her in the eye.

 

Danny St. John watched the news coverage on the television in his living room. He stared blankly at the footage of Hezekiah's body being placed in the van. Danny was empty. His soul had left his body and hovered above the room to protect him from the horror of the images on the screen. He understood why sleep had evaded him for so many days.

Nina Simone was playing on the CD: “Someday I know he's coming to call me. He's going to handle me and hold me. So, it's going to be like dying, Porgy, when he calls me. But when he comes, I know I'll have to go.”

Danny wanted to cry, but he couldn't. He could not find the tears. He could not feel his soul. All he could feel was a familiar emptiness that had been a part of his life for as long as he could remember. It was a void he had not felt for the last year.

 

Reverend Pryce and Cynthia had offered to go home with Samantha, but she graciously refused their company. “I'll be all right. Etta is there, and I have to spend time alone with Jasmine.”

Samantha rode home in the rear of a police car. When they arrived in front of the house, she saw the three police cars. Two officers stood at the ready at the entrance.

A strong-looking female officer walked Samantha to her front door and asked, “Mrs. Cleaveland, would you like me to come in with you for a while? I can stay as long as you need me.”

Samantha still held Hezekiah's jacket. “No, thank you. My housekeeper is here. I need to be alone with my daughter.”

“Ma'am, I am very sorry about what happened. Two officers will be stationed here as long as you think it necessary. Please call me if you have any problems or questions about the investigation.”

“Thank you, Officer. You've been very kind. Good night.”

Etta ran down the foyer stairs, clutching a tissue, when Samantha entered the house. “Oh Lord, Mrs. Cleaveland. This is terrible. Just terrible. Are you all right?”

“No, Etta, I'm not all right. How are you?” The two women hugged. “Is Jasmine in her room?”

“Yes, ma'am. There wasn't much I could do for her. She's been hysterical since you called.”

When Samantha entered her room, Jasmine was sitting on the floor beside her bed. A blanket was wrapped around her shoulders. She didn't look up. Samantha sat down on the floor and put her arms around her crying daughter. “It's okay, honey. Mommy's here.”

“I should have been there. Why didn't you wake me this morning? I could have helped him.”

“No, honey, there was nothing anyone could have done. It all happened too fast. He didn't feel any pain.”

“Why? I can't understand. Everybody loved Daddy. What kind of monster would do something like this?”

“I don't know, baby, but I'm sure the police will find whoever did this.”

They stayed together for most of the night, until Jasmine cried herself to sleep. Samantha pulled the covers over her chest and kissed her forehead. When she went downstairs, Etta was reading a Bible at the kitchen table.

“Thank you for staying tonight, Etta. You should get some rest. Jasmine is asleep now, and I'm going to my room.”

Etta was silent for a moment; then she looked suspiciously at Samantha. “Mrs. Cleaveland, who could have hated the pastor so much that they wanted him dead? I can't understand that kind of hate. Whoever did this must've come straight from hell.”

“Try to get some rest. I'll see you in the morning.”

Samantha didn't trouble herself with the ramblings of the housekeeper. At the moment hell was the least of her concerns. She undressed, neatly placing the bloodstained dress on the hanger. She sat at the vanity mirror and began to remove her makeup. A smile emerged from under the mask she had worn all day. She took a deep breath and thought,
It's over. I'm finally free. No one can get in my way now.

 

It was 11:00
P.M
. The streets of downtown were empty, except for encampments of homeless people under cardboard boxes. Willie Mitchell was driving to the Los Angeles Community Center, where he saw the figure of Virgil Jackson pacing in front of the building. Virgil opened the door of the car and jumped in before Willie could stop completely.

“Where the fuck have you been? I've been waiting here for five hours,” Virgil said before closing the door.

“I had to lock up the church. You did a good job, boy. I'm proud of you.”

“Fuck that. Where's my money? I'm getting out of here tonight. It seems like the fucking police are everywhere I look.”

“It's in the trunk. I'll get it when I drop you near the bus station. Relax, boy. It's over. No one will ever find you. Give me the gun so I can get rid of it.”

Virgil anxiously removed the gun from his waist and handed it to the reverend. “Here. I never want to see the fucking thing again.”

Willie parked the car two blocks from the bus station.

“Why are we stopping here?” Virgil asked, looking over his shoulder.

“I don't want to be seen with you in front of the depot. You can walk from here.”

Both men exited the car. Reverend Mitchell opened the trunk and handed Virgil a brown paper bag. As Virgil opened it to inspect the contents, the reverend quickly removed the gun from his coat pocket and shot him in the chest. His body lay half in the street, and half on the sidewalk, holding a bag filled with folded pages of the Sunday paper.

O
nce again, Samantha stood before five outfits hanging in her closet. It was the night before Hezekiah's funeral. She searched her collection for the perfect black dress, shoes, and accessories.
No need to buy anything new for this,
she thought.
I'll only be able to wear it once.

She took special care in selecting each piece.
After all,
she thought,
this is a special occasion. Hezekiah would want me to look my best.
Samantha was a firm believer that women never looked more beautiful than on their wedding days and on the days they lowered their husbands into the ground. Samantha wanted to look stunning for the many mourners who would see her in person and on television. She felt she owed it to the memory of Hezekiah.

She needed an outfit that prompted such observations as “Even on the most difficult day of her life, Mrs. Cleaveland looked radiant” and “The brave widow of the slain minister, Hezekiah T. Cleaveland, looked more glamorous than ever.” Even more important, “So young, beautiful, and dignified. Samantha Cleaveland should be the next pastor of New Testament Cathedral.”

No acrobatics would be required on this occasion. She simply needed to convey dignity, class, and strength. Samantha selected three outfits from the section of black dresses in her closet and hung them in a row. The first was a simple black linen suit with a tuxedo-cut jacket that had pearl buttons down the front and on the cuffs. Next to it hung a silk dress she had purchased in Paris earlier that year, with an intricately laced gold collar. The third was a black dress with a halter neckline accented by a band of crystal beads. She particularly liked this choice because it accented beautifully the curves of her hips.

Samantha modeled each of the outfits in front of her floor-to-ceiling mirrors. She tried on a series of leather, plain, beaded, and buckled shoes with each.

She ultimately selected the black suit and a pair of black Italian leather pumps. She felt it was elegant, yet dignified. She decided no jewelry would be necessary. The pearls on the front and cuffs were enough.

Samantha viewed her selection from every angle. She sat in a chair and crossed her ankles and placed her gloved hands gently into her lap and struck a pose. She leaned over a table in the center of the room to emulate the move she would make when leaning in to kiss Hezekiah's cheek.
Perfect,
she thought.
There's just enough leg to give the cameras something to look at.

 

Hezekiah T. Cleaveland Avenue was lined with a row of six black Rolls-Royce limousines, filled with family members and friends, in front of New Testament Cathedral. Streets were cordoned off within a two-block radius of the church due to the massive crowd attending the funeral. At the foot of the church steps was a black hearse containing Hezekiah's body.

An army of television and newspaper reporters provided blow-by-blow coverage of the events that were unfolding in front of the church. News vans sent live footage from satellite dishes to stations around the world, and six helicopters buzzed overhead waiting for the perfect shot of Samantha walking behind the casket into the church.

Dino exited the driver's seat from the limousine that sat directly behind the hearse. The gun was tucked discreetly in a shoulder holster under his jacket. Six additional armed bodyguards stood around the limo as Dino opened the rear door.

Samantha extended her sleek black-leather-clad foot to the sidewalk and paused for a brief moment. Dino took her arm as she exited the car. The helicopters zoomed in, causing her silky hair to blow gently in the breeze. She brushed the stray strands away from her dark-tinted sunglasses.

Jasmine Cleaveland emerged next from the rear seat. She wore a black suit that mirrored her mother's. Jasmine chose to wear a hat to cover her puffy eyes and tear-stained cheeks.

Everyone in the room stood as Samantha and Jasmine walked in, hand in hand, behind the mahogany casket, down the center aisle, and to the front row of the sanctuary. Their movement was accompanied by a hymn played by the orchestra. Samantha clutched a handkerchief in her left hand and placed her right arm around the shoulders of her sobbing daughter.

Cynthia Pryce sat quietly in the second row. The brim on the black hat she wore was so wide that it blocked the views of two mourners in the seats behind her. It cast a shadow over her eyes and nose. Only the red of her lips could be seen, except on the rare occasions that she lifted her head. She stood when Cynthia, Jasmine, and Hezekiah's coffin entered the sanctuary.
Leave it to Samantha to wear something
that
flashy to her husband's funeral.

Cynthia reached out and embraced Samantha when she reached the front row, whispering, “I'm so sorry, Samantha. He was such a good man.”

“Yes, he was,” Samantha responded. “Thank you, Cynthia.”

“You know Percy and I are here for you,” Cynthia continued.

Samantha pulled away when she heard the last words. She looked Cynthia directly in the eyes and whispered, “I know you are, dear. Just make sure that you keep out of my way.”

Cynthia flinched at the words and clutched her handbag tightly under her arm and breast. She looked up and saw Percy peering down from the stage at her. He looked intently at the exchange and then quickly averted his eyes away from her glance.

Percy's heart pounded in his chest as the coffin was positioned at the foot of the steps. Waves of guilt caused his shoulders to tense. He felt like he was going to pass out.
I'm going to leave her,
he thought while the women embraced.
I'm going to leave her penniless.

He looked down again in Cynthia's direction and saw her red lips peeking from beneath the brim of the hat. They were full, and the gloss seemed to shimmer like a drop of dew on the petal of a lily.
God, she's beautiful,
he thought as his mind wandered.
I'm sure she loves me. I know she thought she was doing the right thing. Maybe…
The sweet and pungent smell of the flowers on Hezekiah's coffin summoned him painfully back to the somber occasion, which was unfolding at his feet. The tension in his shoulders returned.

Victoria and her husband, Rev. Sylvester Johnson, sat in the seats behind Samantha. Beads of perspiration formed puddles under Sylvester's toupee. The off-kilter hairpiece sat atop his scalp and shifted with every turn of his head.

Victoria's head was floating from a mix of gin and the little white pills she had consumed during the car ride to the church. “Don't tell me what to do,” she had chided her husband. “There's no way I can get through this funeral without something to calm my nerves.”

Victoria leaned forward and placed her gloved hand on Samantha's shoulder and whispered, “Don't worry, Sammy. We're going to get that bitch. She'll wish she were in that coffin when we get finished with her.”

Samantha placed her hand on Victoria's and said, “Thanks, honey. You are such a dear friend.”

A slight smile appeared on Samantha's face as she thought,
Thank God she remembered. I knew I could count on Victoria.

The funeral attendants removed a heavy spray of yellow, white, and red roses from the coffin and lifted the lid to reveal Hezekiah's serene body lying in state.

Hattie Williams sat in her usual seat on the center aisle, third row. She wore the dress that she had worn to her husband's funeral years earlier. She did not stand when Samantha walked past her, but she could feel Samantha approaching from behind.
She's more concerned about which direction the cameras are pointing than about her dead husband, or Jasmine.

A string of dignitaries paraded across the stage and expressed their sorrow over the loss of such a great man. Sandra Kelly blended into the crowd. On the surface she was just another somber face. Another black suit and one more handkerchief poised to catch a tear. But beneath the grieving facade, her dark heart distinguished her from most others in the room.

I wish I had been the one who pulled the trigger,
she thought as she dabbed her eye to wipe away the tear that wasn't there.
Now it's Samantha's turn, and I'm going to make sure she gets everything she deserves.

Renowned gospel artists serenaded the body and the distraught family. The JumboTron flashed images of Hezekiah in various incarnations of his life. Then the crowd heard, “Ladies and gentlemen, the president of the United States.”

The somber face of the commander in chief appeared on the twenty-foot screen and said, “Hezekiah was not only a great man, a shepherd to millions of people around the world, and the pastor of New Testament Cathedral, but also he was my friend and confidant. He will be missed by all of us. To Samantha and Jasmine, please know that you can call on Megan and me anytime for support, and if you just need a friend to talk to. We love you. You will always be in our hearts and prayers.”

Samantha pressed her gloved fingers to her lips and directed a heartfelt kiss toward the twenty-foot head on the screen.

For the mourners in the back row of the sanctuary, Hezekiah's coffin on the floor below looked like a postage stamp with a red dot in the center. They were so close to the ceiling of the building, they could feel the heat from the bright lights. Danny St. John sat quietly in the most extreme corner seat of the last row. He felt dead inside.
It might as well be me in the coffin,
he thought as the president spoke.

She's done it.
A single tear broke free from a dark place in his heart and fell to his shoulder. It was over. Hezekiah was at peace, and he was alone again.

 

I never thought I would live to see this day,” Reverend Davis said. “I think the pastor must have known something was going to happen to him.”

Cynthia, Percy, and Reverend Davis walked slowly away from the grave site. Hezekiah had been laid to rest on a quiet hill in Inglewood Park Cemetery, overlooking the city.

Cynthia waited for what she considered to be a respectable amount of time; then she said to Reverend Davis, “It is a sad day. I guess we have to start thinking about who is going to take over as pastor. I don't want to appear insensitive, but I assume we have your support for the nomination of Percy as Pastor Cleaveland's successor. I think he already has the support of most of the members of the board of trustees.”

“Cynthia, please,” Percy said, looking her directly in the eyes and squeezing her hand tightly.

She flinched from his grip.

“Show some respect for the man. His body isn't even in the grave yet.”

“That's okay, Percy. Cynthia is right. We do have to start talking about this. I've been thinking about it, since the pastor raised the subject. I have decided to recommend you to the trustees.” He lowered his head in shame as he spoke the painful words.

Cynthia clutched Percy's arm and said, “That is wonderful, Reverend Davis. You won't regret it. Percy will make a great pastor.”