Second Sunday (4 page)

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 noticed 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.”

Three weeks later, the second candidate came to spend his trial week at Gethsemane. The Rev. David O. Clemson, III, a handsome,
light brown, expensively dressed man with a head full of dark brown, well-groomed, and naturally straight hair, was smooth
as silk and charismatic. He had most of the members of the Deacon and Finance Boards practically eating out of his hand—with
the notable exceptions of Bert, Wendell, Melvin Sr., and Mr. Louis Loomis. Mr. Louis Loomis took one look at Rev. Clemson’s
suit and declared loudly, “What y’all got him here for? We cain’t afford this here boy. His suit cost most a month’s salary.”

Not wanting to scare Rev. Clemson off, Cleavon laughed nervously and said, “Now, what would Louis Loomis know about a good
suit? He only shops at Sears,” as if Mr. Louis Loomis wasn’t even there.

At the Sunday service, Rev. Clemson won over the congregation as well, with his compelling sermon, “God Always Has a Ram in
the Bush.” It was lively, funny, provocative, and right on target with the concerns of the community. He impressed the women,
especially, with the rhythmic cadence of his delivery and his frequent pauses to smile, eyes twinkling like diamonds, at certain
sisters in the pews. A few found him so electrifying that they kept jumping up, hollering out, “Preach, preach” when Rev Clemson
hit the “hot spots” in his sermon.

But as soon as Sheba Cochran laid eyes on Rev. Clemson, she detected a coarseness beneath his smooth ways and exquisitely
tailored suits. Her suspicions were heightened when she noticed that during the service, Mrs. Clemson spent most of her time
scrutinizing the women who were most intently focused on her husband while he preached. And the woman never so much as cracked
a smile throughout her husband’s entire fifty-minute sermon.

Sheba wasn’t the only one worried about Rev. Clemson. Mr. Louis Loomis got very concerned when Cleavon Johnson started singing
his praises after the Sunday morning service. When he overheard Cleavon’s dumb cousin, Rufus, bragging that they had found
the pastor for the job, he got scared and got to praying. Mr. Louis Loomis spent half of Tuesday praying on that man, petitioning
the Lord with such intensity, he wore himself out and fell into a deep sleep.

When he woke up, the Lord led him straight to the telephone to call Sheba Cochran. As soon as she answered the phone, he said,
“Why do you keep coming to church three months before you s’posed to, and without your children? You ain’t got no bad news
on your health or your job lately, has you, babygirl?”

“No, sir,” Sheba answered politely, and then laughed softly into the telephone.

Mr. Louis Loomis listened to her laugh. He had seen Sheba in church over the years. But he didn’t ever remember seeing her
smile or hearing her laugh. He liked that old sassy laugh. It was the laugh of a woman who knew how to take care of a man
right. Shame the girl was always alone whenever he saw her. She would make some man a good wife, if the man had sense enough
to see her for the jewel she was.

“Well, Miss Sheba, you haven’t answered my question. Used up two words to put my mind at rest about your health and your job.
But I want to know why you been all up in Gethsemane acting like you a full-fledged member.”

Sheba didn’t know what to say. Mr. Louis Loomis was, after all, a member of the very committee the women were fighting against,
and the last thing Sheba wanted to do was cause problems for her friends. She sighed heavily into the telephone.

“Babygirl?” Mr. Louis Loomis asked.

Sheba weighed her options. She could put Mr. Louis Loomis off with some vague excuse, but that might just make him nosier.
If he started sniffing around, he might discover what the women were plotting, and even which women were the ringleaders.
Then, if he tipped off their husbands on the search committee, the entire plan could backfire. Maybe the safest course would
be to make him her ally, especially since her heart was telling her she could trust him. She took a deep breath, silently
praying that whatever was leading her to talk was pushing her to say the right thing.