Second Sunday (7 page)

George looked up at Sheba, reading glasses falling down on his nose, and smiled. He was trying to remember why she was so
familiar, when it occurred to him that she was the woman who kept trying to come on to him yesterday at church. He stood up
and shook her hand.

“Yes, I’m George Wilson. And you are?”

Sheba smiled some more and ran her tongue across her top lip. She said, “My name is Sheba Cochran. I was a guest of Bert and
Nettie Green at church yesterday. They are my neighbors.”

“As in Bert Green, the head of the Deacon Board?”

“Umm-hmm,” she answered with a soft purr.

George couldn’t help but wonder how Deacon Green fared living next door to a Sheba Cochran.

Sheba stood there watching him a few seconds and then decided to move her hips about just a little. George caught the movement
but didn’t respond to it.

“Would you like to sit down, Miss Cochran?”

“I sure would,” she replied, and slunk into her chair like a temptress would sit down with a man in a movie.

Rev. Wilson ignored that maneuver and signaled for the waitress to come to their table. He looked back at Sheba and said,
“I take it you haven’t ordered yet, right?”

“No, I haven’t, Reverend.”

“Neither have I. I was told by my good buddy, Rev. Theophilus Simmons, not to leave St. Louis without coming up in Pompey’s
Rib Joint #Two. I’m hoping the food is as good as he says it is.”

“It is,” Sheba said in a sweet, relaxed voice that sounded more like her real self than she had since she’d met him.

He liked this change in her. All that sashaying, lip-licking, fake purring, and putting-on got on his nerves. He said, “What
should I order?”

“I recommend the rib tip sandwich if you real hungry. And the ham sandwich with lettuce and tomatoes is good if you just want
a quick bite to eat.”

“What are you having?” he asked.

“I like the fried turkey sandwiches.”

“Pompey’s has fried turkey sandwiches? Hmmm, been a while since I’ve had one of those. Most folks don’t like to fool with
frying a turkey.”

“Yeah,” Sheba said, “but Mr. Pompey know he can fry some turkey. He seasons that bad boy to perfection, drop it in that big
ole barrel outside, and let it fry until it is brown, crispy, and juicy.”

“You making me awfully hungry there, girl,” George said, grinning.

Sheba liked that grin, though it had so much “mannish” in it, she wasn’t sure of how to proceed. She was supposed to be checking
him out.

In an attempt to regain some control over this situation, Sheba picked up the book Rev. Wilson had been reading and said,
“You like W. E. B. Du Bois?”

“Yeah,” George answered. “I just started this one.”

“I’ve read several of Dr. Du Bois’s books, but not
Black Reconstruction
.”

“What books of his have you read?” he asked, becoming more and more curious about a woman who sashayed and purred and read
W. E. B. Du Bois all in one heaving breath.

“
The Philadelphia Negro,
his book on the slave trade, his autobiography, and of course,
The Souls of Black Folk.
”

“Of course,” he answered with a taste of surprise in his voice.

“Rev. Wilson, don’t be too shocked that a woman who looks like me reads Du Bois. I’ve read Ralph Ellison, Langston Hughes,
Anne Petry, and Zora Neale Hurston, too.”

“I’ve never read any books by Zora Neale Hurston,” he said. “Are they good?”

“Her books are very good. I’ve always loved the way she writes about people like me. You know it’s near to impossible for
me to find myself in a book, ’less it’s about me cutting up my old man or being on welfare or something like that.”

George smiled again. He was beginning to like this woman despite all of that sex-kitten foolishness she had thrown his way.
She gave him the impression that her feet were planted firmly on the ground, and she had what he always called “the genius
of the folk.” George couldn’t help but wonder why this delightful woman had been working so hard to get next to him. The way
she’d acted at church and when she’d first come into Pompey’s didn’t fit with the way she was right now.

“Tell me, girl,” he said in a smooth and mellow voice. “Why are you so intent on
pre-tending
like you want to get next to me?”

“Well,” Sheba thought, “this man is smart and perceptive.” Neither Rev. Patterson nor Rev. Clemson had caught on to her, and
they were very worldly men.

“Miss Lady,” he said, “don’t try and play me for a fool. You’re up to something. And I’d appreciate your respecting me enough
not to keep up this game, now that you know I’m on to you.”

Sheba was in a tight space on this one. She couldn’t break the women’s confidence, but she didn’t want this man to think she
was one of those women who shamelessly chased after preachers. She took in a deep breath and blurted out words that had quietly
and surprisingly settled in her heart.

“I want to come back to church, and the only thing holding me back is finding a church home with the right kind of pastor.”

“I see,” George said. “So, you have been checking out all the pastors coming through Gethsemane, huh?”

She nodded.

“And, uh, what kind of competition am I up against for this job?”

“None,” Sheba said flatly.

“None?” he asked.

“None,” she repeated. “The two men they interviewed before you weren’t nothing but trouble. The first one was a jive-time
jackleg preacher. And I don’t know what possessed that man to wear his hair like he did.”

George raised one eyebrow.

“He was bald at the top—had a great big clean circle in the middle of his head—and then had an Afro that wrapped around the
bottom part. That half-moon Afro had to be about this big.”

Sheba held her hands four inches away from her head.

“Sounds to me,” George said, trying not to laugh, “that you all got clowned.”

“Big time,” Sheba answered, smiling back at him, and then frowned.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah, I was thinking about the second man. He could preach real good but when you got close up on him, he was just like Christmas
tree lights hung in a dirty window with raggedy drapes.” She suppressed a shiver, recalling just how dirty and raggedy Clemson
turned out to be.

“Finding a good man to pastor your church has been hard on you, huh?”

“Finding a good man to pastor this church is like trying to find a lot of money laying around in a greasy paper bag in an
old parking lot.”

“That’s pretty bad,” George said, thinking about what Theophilus Simmons had told him about Gethsemane and its internal politics.
Then he added, “Man, that’s a good church. But right now, it reminds me of a fine woman at a party full of thugs. Like that
fine woman, Gethsemane needs a righteous brother to come in and let everybody know he looking after her.”

They sat quietly for a few seconds, until George said, “What’s your impression of me?”

“You seem like a decent man,” Sheba answered.

“Seem?”

“That’s what I said,
seem.
But to be fair to you, Rev. Wilson, I do get a good feeling from you. So I’m going to trust my feelings and give you some
advice. You will not become the pastor of this church if you do not meet with the women this week. I know the men think they
can hire a pastor without the women’s approval. But I can tell you that will not happen.”

“So how do I get a meeting with the women, Sheba?”

“Call Bert Green and he’ll work it out for you.”

“Sounds good to me,” he said. “Will you be at the meeting?”

“You can count on it, Reverend. I want to make sure that what you walking around dressed as is real and not sheep’s clothing
tailored to camouflage a wolf.”

Sheba stood up and looked around for the waitress, who was so slow that the expression “slow as molasses” was way too fast
for her.

“I was hoping you’d eat lunch with me,” George said. “Figured you might want to check me out a bit more.”

“I wish I could,” Sheba said. “But I’ll have to take my sandwich with me, because my lunch hour’s almost over.”

“Where do you work?” George asked.

“Down on Market Street at the Main Post Office. I work in the back, sorting out the mail. Not a fancy job, but I’m happy with
it. The pay and benefits ain’t bad, either.”

“I hear you,” George replied. Good, steady jobs were hard to come by.

“I’ll see you at the meeting, Rev. Wilson,” Sheba said as she gave the waitress her money for the sandwich. She held out her
hand and gave him the sweetest smile.

George held her hand a moment. “I’m looking forward to it,” he answered in a voice that was so sexy Sheba had whispered “Oh
my” before she could shut her mouth. She pulled her hand out of his and hurried from the restaurant, hoping she hadn’t made
a fool of herself.

Once George was certain that Sheba wouldn’t catch him checking her out, he watched her walk out of Pompey’s and on down the
street. He thought she had a nice round behind sitting up on her little thin-shaped self. George smiled inside of himself,
thinking it had been a long time since a woman inspired a sparkle like that inside of him.

Sheba attended every one of the meetings Rev. Wilson held with the women at the church. And the more she saw of him, and heard
what he had to say, the more she found herself liking this man. First and foremost, George Wilson was just a plain old nice
guy. But more important, he clearly had given his life over to Christ. He was, as Nettie’s mother, MamaLouise Williams, said,
“not ashamed to let folks know that he had the Holy Ghost.” And that, all of the women agreed, was an essential credential
for a preacher trying to become the pastor of your church.

Furthermore, the ladies were relieved that Rev. Wilson believed they deserved a more visible role in the running of the church,
and that they even had a right to be ordained if they were called into the ministry. For the most part, they were ready to
hire him, but Nettie, Viola, and Sylvia wanted to get Sheba’s final report on him first.

This time they were at Sheba’s house and gathered around her kitchen table, their mouths watering when she served a piping-hot
peach cobbler that filled the whole room with the smell of peaches, cinnamon, and brown sugar. And there was vanilla ice cream
to top it off.

“Is Katie Mae gone make this meeting, Nettie?” Sheba asked as she poured everybody some coffee and then put fresh cinnamon
sticks in each cup.

Viola leaned forward and inhaled the aroma of her coffee. “Ummmm, this smells heavenly.”

Nettie got some peach cobbler and put a scoop of ice cream on top before answering, “She’s not coming because we’re meeting
at your house.”

Sheba frowned. “I thought she and I had gotten past all of that.”

“It’s not Katie Mae this time,” Nettie said. “It’s Cleavon. He’s mad about the way things are going with hiring a pastor.
And when that jackass is upset about something, he gives Katie Mae a hard time.”

“Yeah,” Viola added, “that man would die a thousand deaths if she came over to your house.”

“Well, I for one am glad the girl stayed home,” Sylvia said between bites. “Cleavon would just butter her up to get information
he don’t need to have. And that man know how to put it on Katie Mae when he want something.”

Sheba secretly wondered how Cleavon Johnson managed to do all of that. He was too mean and selfish to “put it on” a woman
good enough to turn her head.

“So,” Nettie said, watching her ice cream melt over the cobbler, “what y’all thinking on Rev. Wilson?”

“He the one,” Viola said. “We don’t need to interview anybody else. Rev. Wilson is the pastor we need. I know it in my heart.”

“I agree,” Sylvia said. “What about you, Sheba, since you’ve had the most contact with the man.”

Sheba smiled kind of dreamy-like and said, “I think Rev. Wilson is absolutely perfect.”

“Huh?” Nettie said.

“I mean, I think he’ll make a very good pastor—good enough to make me think about coming to church on Thanksgiving and Palm
Sunday.”

“That good?” Viola stated. “Umph, he really have it going on, for you to add some extra days to your worship schedule.”

“Yeah, Rev. Wilson got a whole lot going on for him,” Sheba responded with a soft sigh.

“I’ll talk to Bert,” Nettie said. “He likes Rev. Wilson a lot and wants to hire him.”

As soon as the search committee sat down to discuss hiring Rev. Wilson, Cleavon jumped in with his objections.

“You all practically had heart attacks over hiring Rev. Clemson because he wasn’t trustworthy with a street woman. And now
y’all just chompin’ at the bit to hire a man who ain’t even married. Now, if a married man couldn’t be trusted to behave,
what do you think will happen with a man who ain’t got a wife warming his bed on a nightly basis?” Cleavon demanded, and then
answered his own question, “I’ll tell you what’ll happen. The Negro will go runnin’ through the women in this church like
he runnin’ through a puddle of water.”

“And Pastor Clydell Forbes, the biggest two-timing dog on two feet, was more trustworthy than Rev. Wilson, right?” asked Mr.
Louis Loomis. “Next thing I know, you’ll be trying to tell me that those two women who climbed up in his coffin hollering
and screaming ‘Please, Big Daddy, don’t leave me’ were his cousins.”

“What does the late Clydell Forbes have to do with all of this?” Cleavon said defensively.

“Everything,” Mr. Louis Loomis answered. “Because if that Negro would have left all those women alone, took better care of
himself, and avoided that heart attack, we wouldn’t be sitting up in this room without a pastor before our anniversary. And
there ain’t nothing wrong with Rev. Wilson, Cleavon, other than you can’t run over him and run this church through him.”

“He could be one of those men who don’t like women,” Cleavon countered. “What would you say about that?”

Turning away from Cleavon, Mr. Louis Loomis addressed Bert. “Hire George Wilson. He’s the right man for the job, and you and
most everybody with some sense on this committee knows it.”