Second Sunday (24 page)

“I won’t bite, baby,” he said in that low, sexy voice. He ran his finger down the side of her face and cupped her chin in
his hand, pulled her face to his, and kissed her softly on the lips.

“See,” he whispered, kissing her again, “I told you I wouldn’t bite you, baby.”

Sheba lowered her eyes, and something in that openly sweet response got next to George. He grabbed the back of Sheba’s head
and kissed her deeply. Her mouth was warm and soft and delicious.

“I like these lips, baby,” he said. “And I like this, too.” He began kissing her eyelids, nibbling on her ears, and placing
hot kisses on her neck, before moving back to her lips.

“Do these sweet lips belong to me, baby?” George asked.

Sheba said, “Yes,” in a barely audible whisper.

“I said, ‘Do these sweet lips belong to me, baby?’”

“Yes, George,” she replied, meeting his eyes. “They belong to you.”

“Don’t you give anybody so much as a taste of these lips. These are my lips, Sheba,” he said, kissing her with so much passion
that Sheba felt like she was going to melt right into that man.

“George,” Sheba whispered in his ear, sending a shiver across his shoulders and down his chest.

“Oooh, baby,” he said, “heaven must be like this, it must be like this.”

Sheba buried her head in George’s shoulder. She was so overcome with emotion that a tear trickled down her cheek. No man had
ever before touched her so profoundly with just words and a kiss.

George pulled at Sheba’s chin and once more captured her mouth with his own, moaning as he kissed her again, his hands roaming
over her hips as if they had a mind of their own. Sheba knew she was headed for the danger zone and quickly asked the Lord
to help her get out of this pinch. She had been in a pinch of this nature a few times before, and back then she hadn’t had
sense to ask God for some help. Gerald, Lucille, Carl Lee, and La Sheba were living proof of that.

“George,” Sheba whispered, trying to pull away from him.

“Yeah, baby,” he murmured, not in the least bit interested in letting go of her. In fact, he wanted to go further, despite
the fact that he knew better. He was a pastor, a man of God, and a man with a sincere desire to serve and please the Lord.
The last thing he was supposed to want to do was make love to a woman who was not his wife, and especially in the pastor’s
office. But George couldn’t help it. He wanted to make love to Sheba, as he knew in his heart she had never been made love
to before.

“George,” she said. “Don’t you have an appointment?”

Suddenly George remembered that he had to meet with Latham and Rosie Johnson, and looked at his watch. Their meeting was fifteen
minutes away, and Latham was always on time, if not a few minutes early. George stood up so fast, he almost dropped Sheba
on the floor.

“What are you doing?” Sheba demanded.“I know you didn’t have the nerve to roll me off of you like that.”

George was frustrated. He had not wanted to stop. With his body still racing ahead of his mind, he opted to go into what MamaLouise
always called “crazy-man space,” pouting and getting all in a huff with her.

Sheba knew George was frustrated, but that didn’t excuse him for blaming her for making him do the right thing. She fixed
her eyes on him and muttered, “You need to grow up.”

“What?” George asked, thinking he was hearing things. Because he just knew that girl didn’t have the nerve to tell him to
grow up.

“You better get ready to meet with Latham and Rosie,” Sheba said, hoping he had heard her loud and clear, but playing dumb,
so she could get away with having said it.

“Yeah, I do have to get ready, though I’m not looking forward to this meeting at
all,
” he replied with a heavy sigh. “I am hoping I can help those two keep it together. But Sheba, the Lord will have to forgive
me. I just don’t have anything in me that I can say to help them. Latham Johnson is a piece of work, and I don’t have the
patience to deal with him.”

“So what are you going to do?” she asked.

“Don’t know. Unfortunately, I don’t even feel led to tell those two to stay together. Rosie seems like she is in so much pain,
I can’t help but wonder if she would be happier without Latham in her life.”

Sheba took a deep breath and spoke from her heart. “George, you can’t save this marriage, because Latham doesn’t accept Rosie
for herself—and he never has, for that matter. He has always believed that he’s better than Rosie because Sylvia and Melvin
Sr. are caterers and his father is a dentist.”

“But—,” George began.

“But nothing, George,” Sheba said. “I believe the Lord is working in one of His unfathomable ways, moving Latham right out
of Rosie’s life, and I hope that she will not refuse this blessing in deep disguise that is coming to her.”

Sheba could tell George was having trouble accepting the idea that he might be presiding over the inevitable end of a marriage.
But she also knew that when a man had trouble digesting a hard truth a woman put in his lap, a wise woman did not try to force
the issue, but instead petitioned the Lord to open the man’s heart and ears to receive what she had to say.

“I better get going,” Sheba said, breaking the tense silence that had descended on the room. “My intercessory prayer meeting
with the Prayer Troopers will start soon.”

“How is that going?” George asked, glad to focus on something other than Sheba’s thoughts about Latham and Rosie Johnson.
He had been wondering how Sheba, as the youngest member of the group, was faring among such old-timers as Mr. Louis Loomis,
MamaLouise, Miss Mozelle, and Mr. Joseaphus Cantrell.

“I love it,” she announced brightly. “It’s nice being the youngest in the group. I get a whole lot of attention and I am learning
a lot about the power of prayer.”

“
And
,” she thought, “I am taking notes from some serious prayer warriors on what to do about
your
behind.”

“Will you come by the office after prayer meeting?” he asked. When Sheba gave him a sweet smile and nodded, he said, “Lift
me up in prayer when you go downstairs.”

“Don’t you worry none, George. I’ll be doing just that very thing.”

Sheba opened the door and was about to leave when something occurred to her.

“Why are you meeting with them anyway? With all that is going on with you and Latham’s uncle Cleavon, I would think you’d
want to steer clear of that family.”

“Sylvia asked me to talk to them. She said that things were bad for her daughter and she needed some help in getting through
to ‘that boy’ she was married to. And after watching what Miss Mozelle went through with Mr. Oscar, Sylvia said, she didn’t
want her babygirl to waste forty years of her life.”

“That makes sense,” Sheba answered, shaking her head. “Because I don’t know
how
Rosie stands that boy. Lord
knows
I don’t know how she
stands
him.”

Barely five minutes after Sheba left, the Johnsons arrived. George opened the door, shook Latham’s hand, and told them to
come in and sit down. He saw Latham nod at Rosie, indicating where he wanted her to sit.

George couldn’t understand why Latham thought he was so much higher than Rosie. The girl had started the city’s only black
interior-decorating firm on a shoestring budget, and she was making quite a name for herself, helping folks put their houses
together at a reasonable price. The two members’ homes she decorated that George had seen were beautiful—tasteful, down-home,
welcoming, with all kinds of creative black touches in each room.

But it seemed that the more folks sang her praises, the worse Latham treated her. He even had the nerve to walk off from one
of the church mothers who told him how good Rosie’s work was. And that was the Sunday that Rosie’s mother Sylvia had decided
to intervene. As soon as church was over, she’d come straight to George’s office and said, “I don’t know about my daughter.
But as for me, I’ve had enough of Latham Johnson and his jacked-up foolishness.”

Now, George started to sit on his desk, something that made most folks he counseled feel more comfortable. But one look at
Latham told him to take a more formal approach, if he wanted to make any headway with this man. So he went and sat behind
his desk, drew himself up to his full height, and looked right at Dr. Latham Johnson, who was flipping through an appointment
book like he had something far better to do with his precious time.

George could see that this was not going to be easy and said a silent prayer, fervently hoping that Sheba was praying for
him too. Because he was going to need all the prayer he could get to deal with this pompous-acting fool.

“Latham, I will be honest with you and Rosie. I called you in because Rosie’s mother is worried about what’s going on with
you two. She says things are bad and you-all need some help.”

Latham cleared his throat and glared at Rosie as if to say, “I told you not to talk about us to anyone.”

She lowered her eyes in an attempt to avoid the anger in his before saying, “I didn’t talk to Mama. She talked to me. What
was I to do, lie to my own mother?”

“Yes, if that would keep her out of
my
business,” he answered nastily. “What goes on with you and me,
between
you and me. I don’t know why you can’t get that through your big fat head.”

“But, Latham,” Rosie started to say, then stopped when he held up his hands, making it clear that he didn’t want to listen.

“What’s wrong with you-all?” George asked. “I wish I could approach you textbook style. But honestly, the friction being displayed
here calls for me to put a few things on the line. I—”

“I,” Latham interrupted, “I figured that you would ask me about our difficulties, so I wrote out my complaints for you.” He
pulled a paper out of his briefcase and handed it to George.

“There is a table of contents at the beginning of the paper and an index at the end, if you wish to look up a subject on Rosie
without having to comb your way through the entire paper. I do, however, strongly urge you to read the opening statement,
because it articulates my complaints about Rosie’s behavior over the past year.”

At that point, Latham looked real satisfied with himself, sat back in his chair, and unbuttoned his very expensive brown tweed
blazer as if he was relieved that he had regained control over this situation.

George didn’t quite know what to do with this turn of events. He couldn’t remember ever dealing with such cold and calculated
hostility from a man toward his wife. Mr. Oscar had sure showed out with Miss Mozelle, but at his lowest point, he wasn’t
like this. George eyed Rosie, wondering if she had something in writing for him too. But she was just sitting there trying
not to cry and looking like she had been stung by a very angry hornet.

George flipped through the paper to the end of it and read the index. This paper was simply amazing—written in a lofty style,
wide-ranging in subject matter, and quite thorough, even if it was a bunch of hincty-fied craziness.

He glanced at the section labeled “Personal Growth and Integrity.” Latham had written, “As it relates to the personal growth
of my
wife,
I wish to make the following analysis and summation: It appears that Rosie has become too comfortable with her current level
of intellectual development. On too many occasions, she has resisted my directives concerning the level of literature she
should be reading. And her lack of integrity on the matter was exhibited when the book I purchased for her,
The Psychology of a Dysfunctional Wife,
sat unopened on our dresser while she read magazines on home decor. This reflects a serious intellectual deficit, which makes
Rosie dull and prone to acting at a level that is beneath the cognitive functioning I am striving to produce in my home.”

George reread that mess to make sure it said what he thought it said. Then, in the most patient and neutral voice that he
could muster up, he said, “Latham, I am not in a position to give this paper the response it deserves. All I want to know
is what you think the problem is.”

Latham sighed in exasperation and said, “Rev. Wilson, there is no one problem. For example, please turn to page eight. It
reads,” he started quoting himself, “‘On the matter of cleanliness, Rosie has been inconsistent with cleaning the home efficiently.
On occasion, there have been dishes in the sink and a full trash can . . .’”

George knew that Rosie’s home was immaculate, because her mother always talked about how the girl seemed obsessed with a clean
house. He stared at Latham, thinking, “Why can’t your lazy, cognitive-functioning behind wash dishes and empty the trash?”
He took a deep breath before saying, “Latham, I don’t want to go over this paper with you right now. I just want you to tell
me what’s wrong. I know something has to be eating at you, if you spent time writing this . . . mes—this treatise on your
wife.”

Latham threw up his hands in frustration. “Rev. Wilson, you called
my
home and asked if you could speak to the two of us,” he said angrily. “I have obliged your request for a meeting I wasn’t
interested in having. And now you are refusing
my
request to deal with this problem in the way that I see best. I wrote this paper to save time and give
you
some direction regarding how you need to deal with my wife. I believe this paper spells out all of the problems we have been
experiencing and even offers solutions, on the bottom of page twenty-two.”

George sighed, not caring how it looked, and decided to go straight to the heart of the matter. He was not playing any power
games with Latham Johnson. Sheba’s voice echoed in his mind: “I don’t know
how
Rosie stands that boy. Lord
knows
I don’t know how she
stands
him.” And at that moment, all he could think was “I don’t know how she stands him, either. Lord knows, I don’t know that.”

“Latham, it is a shame before God for you to write something this vicious about Rosie, or anybody else for that matter,” George
said, holding the paper out toward Latham.