Second Sunday (8 page)

“Over my dead body,” Cleavon jumped up shouting.

“That
can
be arranged, you know,” Melvin Sr. said.

“Talk ’bout a blessing in disguise,” Wendell half-mumbled.

“Cleavon,” Bert said, “Rev. Wilson is my choice, plus the women want us to hire him.”

“That’s because that pansy promised he would do stupid, idiotic things like appointing a woman to our Finance Committee. He
even had the audacity to say that he would ordain some woman who got a crazy notion that she been called to preach. Come on
now . . .”

“Are you through?” Bert asked.

When Cleavon didn’t answer, he said, “Let’s go ahead and vote on hiring Rev. George Robert Wilson as our new pastor. All in
favor?”

Four hands shot up, representing half of the committee.

“All opposed?” Bert went on. Cleavon and his cousin Rufus raised their hands.

“Any abstentions?”

Two members of the committee abstained.

“Why y’all tripping?” Bert demanded, tired of looking for a pastor.

“Well, for one thing,” Cleavon said, “we have one more candidate to interview before we decide on anything about anybody.
Earl Hamilton knows the value of a dollar and has strong ties to the business community. Yet you-all are being pigheaded about
even scheduling an interview week with him.”

“Because he’s a dead fish,” Mr. Louis Loomis said. “Rev. Earl Hamilton is tight and boring, and he has far too many ‘strong
ties’ for my comfort to not-so-nice white preachers, like Ray Lyles out in St. Charles.”

Cleavon was so mad that he could spit tacks. He leaped up out of his chair and walked up on Mr. Louis Loomis, who was sitting
down. Mr. Louis Loomis barely blinked as he said, “Watch yourself, Cleavon,” in a deadly voice, with one hand placed firmly
on his belt.

Cleavon threw up his hands but backed off and addressed the rest of the committee. “We are not discussing hiring George Wilson
until this committee sees my next candidate, Rev. Earl Hamilton.”

Bert was out of patience. But if bringing in Earl Hamilton would help keep the peace in his church, then it was a worthwhile
move.

“Call Rev. Hamilton, Cleavon,” he said, and then abruptly stood up. “Meeting adjourned.”

When Bert went home and told Nettie that they could not hire Rev. Wilson until after they interviewed Rev. Earl Hamilton,
she lost all faith in those men. The very next day, she rounded up all the missionaries’ and women’s auxiliary groups for
an emergency session. The moment the last woman walked into the Ladies’ Parlor, Nettie signaled for the doors to be locked.
Only then did she cut loose.

“Y’all, we are in some serious trouble. The closer we get to our anniversary date, seems like the farther away we are from
having a pastor. We need a pastor bad, but we need a good pastor. The church keeps suffering from all this foolishness that
these men been putting us through, and I for one can’t stand another breath of it.”

“Amen,” Viola called out.

“Now we have found the perfect pastor, and the men are still not satisfied. Instead of offering the job to Rev. George Wilson,
they rounding up Rev. Earl Hamilton, who don’t know what kind of church he wants to be up in, black or white.”

“That’s right,” Sylvia said. She had gone to high school with Earl Hamilton, and even back then, his philosophy was “White
is right; black get back.”

“So—,” Nettie started in.

“Before you do any more rabble-rousing, Nettie Green,” Cleavon’s mother, Vernine Johnson, interrupted, “you need to think
about Earl Hamilton’s credentials. No sense in being rash and foolish and hiring one man before we have a chance to examine
another’s qualifications for the job.”

“Why in the world would we think that tired Uncle Tom, Earl Hamilton is a qualified candidate for our church?” Viola asked.
She couldn’t stand Cleavon’s mother. Vernine was always posturing and acting like she was so much better than everybody else,
when half the time she didn’t even know where Cleavon’s daddy was.

“
Be-cause,
” Vernine stated, straightening out her ranch mink stole, “Rev. Hamilton is a graduate of the Yale Divinity School, he holds
several honorary doctoral degrees, and he comes from a long line of preachers, doctors, lawyers—”

“—and Indian chiefs,” MamaLouise, Nettie’s mother, said. “He’s all that and more, but he not a bit more saved than your son,
Vernine. That is why we all up here arguing like cats stuck outside in a thunderstorm.”

“Let’s not bring our children into this, Louise Williams,” Vernine said haughtily, “because if we do, we have to discuss your
children and why they are so fond of that hoochie mama/welfare queen over there.” She gestured toward Sheba, her diamond rings
and bracelets sparkling with every movement of her hands.

“Heifer!” MamaLouise said loudly. She really wanted a piece of Vernine Johnson and hoped this dispute would goad her into
a confrontation.

“Ignore her, Mama,” Viola grumbled.

Vernine snatched up her purse, strutted to the door, and flipped the end of her ranch mink back over her shoulder. “Ignoring
me will be difficult. You see, this very room was remodeled
and
decorated by
me
.”

“So, what’s your point?” Sheba asked, thinking that Cleavon Johnson couldn’t help but be a jive-time poot-butt with a mama
like that.

Vernine didn’t open her mouth, just stormed out the door and slammed it shut as hard as she could.

At that point, Katie Mae’s grandmother stood up and said, “The devil is so busy in church right now. Y’all get up out of those
chairs, grab somebody’s hand, and bow your heads.”

When everybody was up and holding hands, she started praying, “Father, as You can see, we got something on our hands. Now
You have sent a blessing our way in the form of Rev. George Robert Wilson. Father, let that blessing become manifest in our
midst by making a way out of no-way for him to become our pastor. Guide us, dear Lord; show us what to do and how to do it.
In Jesus’ name we pray and claim the victory. Amen.”

They all stood with heads bowed, hands held, and hearts united in complete silence for a long moment, letting the Holy Spirit
wash over them, getting rid of all of the devilment that had plagued the meeting moments before. Finally, Katie Mae’s grandmother
said, “Y’all, I know what we can do. We gone follow Queen Esther’s example. You ladies with husbands who have a say-so in
who is hired to pastor our church, please ask the Lord to guide you on how to petition your man and let him know what time
it is.”

The first woman to make a Queen Esther move on her man was Sylvia, who fixed Melvin Sr. some chitlins, spaghetti, collard
greens, coleslaw, corn bread, and fresh-squeezed lemonade on a Wednesday night. She took off work that day to get it all done
by the time Melvin Sr. got home. When he sat down to the delicious-looking meal, he took several mouthfuls and said over and
over again, “Baby, this a real treat. Chitlins in the middle of the week—a meal fit for a king!”

“And fixed by
the queen
who’s about to get you straight,” Sylvia thought as she watched Melvin Sr. smack his lips and pile some more chitlins and
greens on his plate.

Viola believed that a Queen Esther move required something your man always wanted but secretly felt he didn’t get nearly enough
of. When she read over the Book of Esther in the Old Testament, what struck her most was that Esther was kind of sexy-like
and knew how to make the king feel like he was “the man.” So she decided that the most effective thing she could do would
be to get all perfumed and fixed up at 3:30
A.M.
, then awaken Wendell for a “fast romp,” one of his favorite things to do in the wee hours of the morning.

As Viola later told Nettie, she turned that man every which way but loose, talking some good love talk, and in earnest telling
her husband, “You know you my daddy, boy.” When Nettie got up off the floor from laughing at her crazy sister, she asked what
Wendell thought of all of this. Viola said, “Girl, all that boy could do was grin, talkin’ ’bout, ‘Baby, baby, baby, you put
the exclamation point on the end of the word
good!
’ right before his wore-out tail fell off to sleep.

“Then, when we finally woke up later that morning,” Viola continued, “girl, I was so tired, I almost forgot why I was doing
all that fast-tailed mess. Had to drink a sixteen-ounce RC Cola to wake up and straighten Wendell out on hiring Rev. Wilson.
But, Nettie, girl, it show was good. I pray that I have some more work to do for the church real soon. ’Cause you know, the
Lord’s working in this kind of mysterious way is right up my alley.”

Katie Mae, who had not been at the meeting with the other women, had gotten an earful about the “ghetto heifers trying to
run her church” from her mother-in-law. The entire Johnson clan, including Cleavon’s cousin Rufus, who was on the search committee,
was very upset over this Rev. Wilson–versus–Rev. Hamilton thing. She knew she would have to tread carefully with Cleavon because
he was bound and determined to hire Earl Hamilton.

So she decided to try a “tough-love” approach. Saturday morning she got up real early, dressed, and then nudged Cleavon, who
was very sleepy, and told him, “I have to go and see about my grandmother. She’s been complaining about her arthritis and
needs some help today. You will have to watch the kids until I get back.”

“Huhhh,” said Cleavon, barely awake.

“The kids shouldn’t be any trouble,” Katie Mae lied, knowing full well that she and Cleavon had the baddestacting children
in church. Then she ran out of the house, hopped in her car, and drove off, not in the least bit worried that Cleavon would
try to track her down—he hated talking to her grandmother.

Katie Mae did go over to her grandmother’s house, but not to help, since her grandmother was in perfect health. Instead she
went over there to eat, hang out with her cousins, watch TV, and sit around the table talking about how much Cleavon’s family
got on everybody’s nerves. When she came home, it was late and the kids were acting crazy—fighting, shrieking, and running
wild in the house. She got them settled down, then went looking for Cleavon and found him stretched out on their bed with
a damp towel draped across his forehead.

Katie Mae sat down on the edge of the bed. “You alright, Cleavon?” she said soothingly, knowing full well that he wasn’t.

“I’m tired,” he said softly, which let her know he was exhausted. Normally, Cleavon would have torn the roof off the house
over her leaving him with the kids like that. But when he was this tired, with his defenses down, she had a chance of reasoning
with him.

“You worried about this business of hiring the new pastor, huh?”

“No Katie Mae, I am just tired from dealing with your bad-tailed children all day,” he replied.

“Well, Cleavon,” she said, “you know you probably won’t feel so tired once this pastor business is over with. I know that
you can’t back out of interviewing Rev. Hamilton at this late date, but you are not obligated to hire him, either.”

Cleavon wanted to jump up and hit the ceiling but couldn’t muster the energy to act out. He just glowered at Katie Mae from
under the towel. She was nervous, he could tell, which meant those bossy women’s-libber friends of hers had put her up to
trying to sway him to hire George Wilson. He opened his mouth to get her straight but quickly realized that force might drive
her into their camp. So he shifted tactics, taking her hand and patting it gently.

“Baby, let’s let the church business rest for now,” he said. “I missed you today and need a little
tendin’
to. Go put those children to bed and come on back up in here and take care of your man.”

“Okay, Cleavon,” Katie Mae said brightly, thrilled at such an unexpected show of affection from her husband. Maybe it didn’t
really matter all that much who became their pastor, she began to think. After all, Earl Hamilton did have some impressive
credentials.

After she hopped up to get the kids, Cleavon got undressed, slipped under the cool crisp cotton sheets, and slapped his palms
together with a smug grin. No doubt about it—he was
the man
in his house. He had been running Katie Mae since they were dating, and he would continue to run her until one of them went
to meet their Maker.

Nettie, meanwhile, was having trouble deciding on a Queen Esther move to try with Bert. She read the Book of Esther twice
and prayed on the matter for three days. Then, just when she was feeling discouraged, Viola called to report that she’d put
a second Queen Esther move on Wendell for good measure, and Nettie suddenly got the inspiration for her own.

She figured the best time to get Bert’s attention was late at night, since he loved midnight treats. So while Bert was watching
the sports report on the ten o’clock news, Nettie filled the tub for him, adding Epsom salts and bubble bath to make it extra
nice. When he eased into the water, oohing and aahing at how great it felt, Nettie went and changed into her one real femme
fatale nightgown—a sheer white negligee, held together only with flimsy pink ribbons at the sides. She even put on the fancy
pink high-heeled house shoes that she and Viola had bought from the Frederick’s of Hollywood store at the Northwest Plaza
shopping center.

She sprayed herself with Bert’s favorite perfume, Chanel No. 5, and then went to get the special snack she had hidden in the
back of the refrigerator. It was his favorite, fresh Mississippi-made hogshead cheese on saltine crackers, perfectly arranged
on a fancy china plate. She pulled a frosted glass out of the freezer and filled it with ice-cold Pepsi-Cola. Then, holding
the Pepsi in one hand and the plate of hogshead cheese in the other, Nettie sashayed her way into the bathroom, trying to
look sexy.

Bert was lying in the bathtub with his head resting on a thick towel, happy and relaxed. As soon as he saw Nettie, his whole
face lit up. She was so cute standing there, looking like one of those women in the movies, and making him think of what it
must be like to be Sidney Poitier. And he could smell that hogshead cheese all the way across the bathroom. He sat up in the
tub, reached out his hand to take the plate from her, and popped a hogshead cheese–covered saltine into his mouth.