Heaven Forbid (17 page)

Obadiah looked at the frozen dinner in disgust. He’d never eaten such a meal in his life, but even at the age of seventy-two, he was discovering that there was a first time for everything. It wasn’t like he couldn’t have eaten a home-cooked meal. Nettie had called earlier and asked if he needed anything, and one of the church mothers had invited him over for dinner. But he didn’t feel like talking to anybody who knew Maxine, didn’t feel like fielding questions or coming up with explanations regarding her abrupt departure and continued absence from Gospel Truth. He’d passed several fast-food places on the way to the store, but for Reverend Doctor Pastor Bishop Mister Obadiah Meshach Brook, Jr., such an establishment was out of the question. He could count the times on both hands that a Big Mac, a Jack or anybody else in a box, or a slice of pizza from a hut had passed his lips. He’d always felt sorry for folks who thought that such fare was good eating. The only reason they did, he knew, was because they’d never had Maxine fix them a burger. He thought that the colonel did all right with a piece of chicken, but even that bird, made with “twelve secret ingredients,” was only good in case of emergency. So for the first time in five years at least, the reverend doctor had gone into a store and walked up and down its aisles in search of food. The experience had promptly given him a headache, which is why he’d gone to the frozen-food section, picked up a “gourmet” meal of Salisbury steak, gravy, mashed potatoes, and green beans, and was now standing in a kitchen he also rarely visited, using a stove he’d rarely used, to cook his dinner.

“Let me see,” he said, putting on his glasses to read the box. “Preheat the oven to three hundred fifty degrees.” Obadiah peered down at the knob in the center of their industry-sized steel range. “I guess this is it.” He bent down farther so he could better see the numbers. “Yes! This is it. Here’s three fifty, right here!” Obadiah smiled as if he’d discovered a cure to cancer. He turned the knob until the desired number was lined up exactly with the line on the stove.

After reading the rest of the instructions and having frowned severely at the suggestion that he could microwave the meal, Obadiah pulled the platter out of the box. He pulled back the plastic covering the food and frowned again. “This looks just about good enough to feed a dog,” Obadiah mumbled to himself. “’Course, Maxine would probably think that just about appropriate.” He shook his head and looked at his watch to see if the required ten minutes were up, the time the box suggested the oven heat before placing the food contents into it. He had another five minutes to wait and decided to check the refrigerator for the umpteenth time to see if he could find a Maxine-cooked-it leftover. There were none, so instead he settled for a handful of cookies and a glass of milk. It seemed that since Maxine had been gone, he was hungrier than he’d ever been. And it wasn’t just Maxine Brook’s cooking he missed. He missed Maxine.

A few minutes later, Obadiah placed the tray in the heated oven. He sat down at the kitchen table to wait for his dinner, rubbed a weary hand over his equally tired eyes, and tried to figure out how he’d gotten to this place. He recalled the evening two weeks ago, when he’d come home to find his companion sprawled on the living room floor, surrounded by his porn collection. He’d been taken aback, to say the least, and more than a bit embarrassed. Yes, he’d acted indignant, accused Maxine of wrongdoing for going into his private domain, but Obadiah couldn’t blame his wife for how she’d reacted. Discovering a dildo in Maxine’s underwear drawer would probably elicit an equally appalled response.

But what does she think I’m supposed to do, shrivel up and die just because she don’t want loving anymore?
Obadiah munched down hard on the chocolate-chip cookie, anger quickly replacing guilt.
I’m her husband, and she ain’t been with me in almost twenty years! I’m the fool here, because I should have been demanding my rights this entire time! Reducing me to using a doll—this is all her fault!
“This is your fault, Maxine! At least it was a doll and not another woman!” Obadiah’s voice boomed off the soft yellow–colored kitchen walls. “All the women throwing themselves at me and I’ve remained faithful!
Except for Dorothea.
Having that thing there was the only way I could.”

The one-sided conversation sounded good to Obadiah, so much so that he decided to try Maxine’s number again. Here she was acting all sanctimonious, all high and mighty, and she had a hand to play in what had gone on in their house as well. She had abandoned her wifely duties, been disobedient to her husband; in short, she’d abdicated her wedding vows. Obadiah felt a new resolve to get in touch with his wife, to fly to Kansas if he had to. It was time to talk some sense into that woman and bring her home!

He was just about to pick up the phone in the kitchen when two bells rang at once: the food timer that he’d set for the frozen dinner, and the doorbell. He decided to get the doorbell first.

“Dorothea, I thought I told you not to come here no more,” he said, once he’d looked through the peephole and opened the door.

Dorothea was nonplussed as she ignored Obadiah’s comment. “Is that any way to greet the woman who’s brought you dinner?”

Obadiah hadn’t even noticed the tote bag at Dorothea’s side. “I’m making my own dinner,” he sighed. “But come on in.” Instead of waiting for her, he simply left the door open and walked back into the kitchen.

“Smells kinda good,” Dorothea said, looking around. Her eyes widened as she eyed the frozen dinner box sitting on top of the trash. “Obadiah Brook! Don’t tell me that’s what I smell in the oven.” But he didn’t have to; she saw it for her own eyes as he pulled the sorry-looking contents from the oven. “Lord, have mercy,” she continued, placing her tote on the table and pulling out its contents. She sat down a salad, a loaf of garlic bread, and a container of spaghetti on the table. “You know I don’t cook much, but I’ll place my spaghetti up against anybody’s—and especially up against that pitiful-looking steak.”

Obadiah retrieved a fork from the drawer and poked the meat suspiciously. He shrugged his shoulders, went back to the drawer for a steak knife, and cut a small piece from the end of the meat. His bite was tentative. “Jesus!” he exclaimed after he’d chewed and swallowed. “People actually eat this stuff?” He looked at the meal that had cost him five dollars and almost threw the entire contents away right then. But he’d come up during the Depression and always cleaned his plate. So with a sense of loathing, and in the span of about five minutes, he forced down the white paste they called potatoes and the piece of shoe leather that passed for steak. But when it came to the string beans and the lump of peaches and flour that they dared call a pie, he’d reached his limit, and for the first time in well over sixty years, threw food in the trash. “Okay, let’s see what you’ve got here so I can get that nasty taste out my mouth!”

Dorothea, who’d heated up the spaghetti while Obadiah scarfed down his food, looked at him with a mixture of compassion and desire. “You always had quite an appetite.” She made herself at home in Maxine’s kitchen, looking from cabinet to cabinet until she found the dishes. She fixed both herself and Obadiah’s plates and joined him at the table.

“Where’s Jenkins?”

“Home, asleep.”

“It’s barely seven o’clock, woman!”

Dorothea sighed. “Believe me, I’m well aware of what time it is, on many levels.”

“He still ain’t satisfied you, huh?”

“He can’t, poor thing. A wet noodle is stiffer than his little dick. He tries to make up for it with material things, and while I’m extremely appreciative, I need more.”

“You can’t keep coming over here, Dorothea. I told you that the last time you showed up at my door unannounced. Neighbors around here are nosy, and somebody from the church could stop by. I don’t want folks talking more than they already are.”

“What’s wrong with a sister-in-the-Lord bringing you by a plate of food? Didn’t Jesus admonish us to feed the hungry?” Dorothea rested her hand on Obadiah’s thigh. “And I
know
you’re hungry.”

Obadiah moved Dorothea’s hand off his thigh. “Stop that now. Ain’t nothing going to go on here in Maxine’s house.”

“Fine, I understand.” Dorothea thought while she chewed a forkful of food. “I think I saw a Quality or a Hampton Inn when I went shopping the other day. I know there’s a Holiday Inn not far from here, but maybe we should go for something less conspicuous, a motel on the other side of town that would have little or no chance of being frequented by anybody either of us know.”

“You know how small this town is, Dorothea. Ain’t no place safe here. There’s liable somebody watching every move you make. Which is why…”

“Why, what? Why we can’t be together?”

“That, too, but it’s why…” Obadiah looked at Dorothea for a long moment, a plan forming in his head behind the thought he’d just had. “I need your help with something, Dorothea.”

“Anything, just ask me.”

“Let’s finish eating first. Then I need to show you something.”

Thirty minutes later, Dorothea followed Obadiah to his study. Short of a sermon outline, she couldn’t think of anything in his office that he’d want to share with her. When he walked to what looked like a library wall, pushed against the end, and walked into a smaller, secret room, Dorothea followed. And then stopped short. Obadiah’s companion stared at her with sightless eyes, its large breasts displayed prominently, like two ripe melons, the lower part of her body covered with one of Maxine’s knitted throws.

Dorothea recovered quickly. “Oh, my precious Obadiah,” she said, walking over and putting her arms around Obadiah, who stood rigid before her. “Your marriage has come to this? Oh, baby, we can’t have you resorting to this madness. Let me help you, right now.” She stepped back, put her hands behind her back, and started to undo her skirt.

“No,” Obadiah said, staying her hands with one of his large, powerful ones. “That’s not what I meant when I asked you for help. This”—Obadiah pointed to the rubber doll—“is the reason Maxine went back to Kansas. She won’t come back until it’s out of the house, but I’m scared to take it any place for fear of somebody seeing me or, worse, taking a picture of me trying to get rid of it.” The scandal of Gospel Truth’s last pastor was never far from Obadiah’s mind, and the last thing he wanted to do was bring more shame to his church. “But people aren’t watching me like they’re watching you. Do you think you can help me get rid of it?”

Dorothea looked from the doll to Obadiah and back again. “I’ll help you, Obadiah. But what do I get out of the deal?”

Thirty minutes later, the deed was done. Dorothea was gone, and so was the monstrosity that had sent his wife fleeing for the land of Oz. For some reason, moving the sixty-pound doll had been more taxing than usual for Obadiah, possibly because other than her arrival, shortly after arriving in Texas, he’d never moved her more than a couple feet. By the time he’d helped get the doll in Dorothea’s car and his accomplice had left, a sheen of sweat covered Obadiah’s face and arms. He watched until Dorothea’s taillights turned the corner. Then he hit the button to lower the garage door, walked back into the house, and straight to the phone.

As had been the case the last few times he’d tried his wife’s number, he got voice mail. But it didn’t matter. He had news, and Obadiah was sure this news would make the difference. Slightly irritated, he hit the pound key to bypass Maxine’s recorded message. As soon as he heard the beep, he spoke into the phone. “Maxine, everything is outta here, and God is not pleased with how you’re acting. You need to come home. Now.”

Passion was tired. She’d been counseling church members all day long, and the conversations hadn’t been easy ones. One member was a single mother dealing with unruly children, one of whom she suspected of being in a gang. The second counseling session had involved a woman battling guilt. She’d had to move her mother into a home last year, because of her mother’s increased dementia. Now it looked as though she might have to quit a job she loved to take care of her full-time. The member was torn between wanting the best for her mother and wanting the freedom to continue living her own life. There were a few less serious but no less harrowing counseling sessions before she began the final session of the day, the member who was now in her office. This member, about the same age as Passion, was considering divorce from her husband. She believed he was a sex maniac, outside of the will of God, because he wanted to make love every night, sometimes more than once in a night. Passion only wished she had this woman’s “problem.” After realizing Passion wasn’t going to condone the woman getting a divorce on these grounds, the woman huffed out of the office. Passion was glad to see her go.

“Lady Lee, you have a call,” her assistant said over the phone, just seconds after Passion sat back down at her desk.

“Take a message.”

“I tried, but the woman said it was important.”

Passion hesitated, not sure if she could speak to one more woman today about her problems. “Who is it?”

“Her name is Sheila Covington.”

“I don’t know her. Take a message.”

“Ma’am, I’ll have to take a message, or I can put you through to our first lady’s voice mail. She is not available.”

Ten minutes later, Passion walked out of her office. “Did the woman leave a message?” she asked her assistant, who responded that she had. As soon as Passion got into her car and put on her headset, she dialed the church’s voice mail system and punched in her code. There was only one new message. “My name is Sheila Covington. You don’t know me, but you may know my ex-husband, Bryce Covington. He’s a very close friend of your husband’s, and if you want him to remain your husband, you might want to keep him away from my ex. There’s no use leaving my number. If you don’t understand this message, you probably won’t call back, anyway, and if you do understand what I’m saying, then…you’ve been warned.”

When Passion turned into her driveway, she was still trying to figure out the cryptic message that Sheila had left on her voice mail. Now she wished she’d taken the call. As the first lady of a prominent ministry, Passion often received calls from women she didn’t know, as well as from various ministries, charities, and social organizations. But in the three-plus years she’d taken calls at the office, she’d never had one like this. Why had Sheila Covington, Bryce’s ex-wife, called to warn her about his and Stan’s friendship?

Passion’s thoughts continued as she went inside her home, changed clothes, and went to the kitchen. She took chicken from the refrigerator and rice from the pantry to begin dinner. Stan had rarely mentioned Bryce, who lived thousands of miles away from them anyway. Aside from their college days, there seemed to be little in common that he and Stan shared. Bryce hadn’t mentioned being in ministry, or even attending church for that matter. And while she’d enjoyed his loquacious conversation and model good looks, Passion couldn’t see Bryce fitting into the Lee lifestyle on a regular basis. His and Stan’s getting together had been a meeting for old time’s sake, nothing more. How could that be dangerous for her marriage? Was Bryce involved in something illegal? She knew Bryce was in politics. Was there a scandal brewing on the horizon?

Conversation was light as Stan, who’d returned from Chicago several days prior, Passion, and Onyx ate a dinner that was commandeered largely by Onyx’s recap of her school day. After putting her daughter to bed, Passion tidied up the kitchen and put the leftover food in the refrigerator. It had been hours, and Sheila Covington’s out-of-the-blue phone call and enigmatic message made no more sense now than when she’d received it this afternoon. She had to find out what was going on, but how? The one time Bryce Covington had come up in conversation, after he’d called the house before the sun rose, an argument had ensued.
I’ll just play it by ear. And in the meantime, I’ll do a search on Bryce Covington tomorrow, see what the Internet can tell me about him…and this Sheila chick too.

“Dinner was good tonight, Passion.” Stan had finished his ablutions in the master-suite bathroom and now sat on the silk-covered bench at the end of their sleigh bed, taking off his socks. He had on his standard sleeping fare: an extra-large white T-shirt and equally large white boxers with thin black pinstripes. “Maybe we can have the associates and their wives over soon to enjoy your good cooking.”

Passion warmed at the praise as she took off her robe, draped it across the foot of the bed, and climbed up on their king-sized mattress. She knew that Stan’s ex-wife, Carla, was known for her culinary skills, especially when it came to Southern cooking. Passion had eaten at Carla’s table and knew the hype was true. Carla was an excellent cook. So hearing Stan’s compliment was not only music to her ears, but it also gave her a way to bring Bryce into the discussion.

“You know I love entertaining, Stan. So just tell me when and how many, and I’ll try my best to whip up something tasty. Speaking of dinner guests, how is your friend Bryce doing?”

Stan was walking to the clothes hamper and stopped at Passion’s question. “Bryce? Why would you ask about him?”

Passion tried to keep her face passive, her voice casual. She shrugged. “Nothing in particular. It’s just that he and his friend were two of the last guests we had over who weren’t church members, and I know that he also knew your friend in Chicago. Even though you haven’t discussed it, I could tell your friend’s death bothered you. You were quiet for a few days after returning from that trip.”

Stan relaxed. It made perfect sense for Passion to ask about Bryce, precisely for the reasons she mentioned. Besides, Stan knew better than anybody what an unforgettable impression Bryce made on any and everyone with whom he came into contact. Passion was also correct about how quiet he’d been after returning from his time in Chicago with Eddie and his family before he died. The conversation regarding homosexuality that he’d had with Bryce had upset him more than he realized. He’d spoken with him only once since that trip, and that was strictly to discuss matters involving the Cathedral. Stan relayed this information to Passion.

“I’ve decided to resign my position on the Cathedral’s board,” Stan said. “I’m spreading myself too thin professionally, and it’s leaving me almost no time for my family.” Stan crawled under the covers, lay on his back, and pulled the cover up to his chin. “I know I’ve been distant,” he continued, looking at the ceiling. “And I know I haven’t been as…intimate as you’d like. I’m going to try and do better, Passion. Please know that my lack of physical interest has nothing to do with you. I came up in a family where physical affection was discouraged, on all levels. My family was not demonstrative—no hugs, no kisses, even loud laughter was rare. We were extremely conservative, and, well, that’s just one of the reasons why I struggle with that part of our relationship. But I want you to know that I’m aware of the situation. And I’m going to do better.”

Passion lay on her side of the bed, shocked. Stan had just opened up more in the past three minutes than he had in three years. It’s all she’d ever wanted, to be able to talk to her husband about their relationship, especially about what things weren’t working and why they weren’t working. Stan had always squashed such discussion before it even got started. Maybe, just maybe, they were turning a corner in their relationship, and Passion could have the healthy marriage she’d always wanted.

Passion wanted to roll over and kiss her husband. She wanted to put her arms around him, snuggle her head to his chest, and fall asleep in his arms. But she knew this was a delicate moment, where one wrong move could change the mood and make Stan regret what he’d revealed. So she stayed on her side of the bed, and instead of hugging her husband, hugged her full-length body pillow, turned off the light on her nightstand, and whispered into the darkness, “Thanks for sharing with me, Stanley. I love you so much and want to be the supportive, understanding wife that you need. Knowing more about the experiences that shaped who you are helps me do that. Whenever you want to talk about…anything, I’m here—childhood, past hurts, rejections, whatever. I’ve got my share too. It will only help us get closer, Stan. Stan?”

Passion became quiet and realized from his deep, even breathing that Stan had fallen asleep. Sleep always came easy for her husband, while slumber often eluded her until dawn. Passion hoped that tonight would not be one of those nights. But as she turned on her side and snuggled under the comforter, she remembered Sheila Covington’s cryptic words:
If you do understand what I’m saying, then…you’ve been warned.
This would be another night where sleep would not come easy for Passion.