Come Sunday Morning (15 page)

Samantha abruptly dropped her fork on the plate. “I don't care who you were talking to. I asked where you are planning on going.”

Not wanting to tangle with her mother while she was teetering on one of her terrible moods, Jasmine snapped, “Never mind. Just drop it.”

“Don't talk to your mother that way, young lady.” Hezekiah finally spoke while reaching for his wallet. “Where are you going?”

Jasmine welcomed the intervention of her father. She could always count on him to look beyond her condition, regardless of how chaotic, and only see his bright-eyed little girl. “Kelly and I are going to a movie.”

Hezekiah reached into his wallet and handed her a one-hundred-dollar bill. Whenever he looked at Jasmine, he could only see the little girl in a white lace dress with yellow ribbons in her hair who ran into his arms every time he entered a room. He couldn't see the rapidly deteriorating young woman who drank too much and had sex in the back of cars with men she barely knew.

“What are you doing, Hezekiah? She's lying. Don't give her that!” Samantha shrieked.

“Don't tell me what to do,” Hezekiah said calmly.

“Why do you indulge her like this? It only makes things worse. Can't you see what's happening to her?”

“You're making things worse by blowing this out of proportion. If, for once in your life, you could stop and think of how your tantrums and manipulation affect others, maybe we wouldn't be in this mess.”

“So it's my fault that you can't control yourself, and that our marriage is falling apart. The fact that you can't keep your…” Acknowledging Jasmine, Samantha had the presence of mind to censor her words.

“Yes, Samantha, much of this is your fault. You want to control everything and everyone around you. This is not the church, damn it. It's our home. You can't even tell the difference anymore. People have their own lives. People have a right to private thoughts—thoughts that even you can't control.”

“Save your sermon for Sunday morning. I'm not one of your sheep that needs you to tell them when to sing and when to pray.”

Samantha snatched the cloth napkin from her lap and threw it onto the table. The china shook as she stood and a glass of water almost tipped over.

“If you could pull your head out of the sand for once, you'd see that your daughter is killing herself and needs our help. But you've got more important people on your mind these days.”

“Don't involve Jasmine in our problems. Jasmine, you should leave. Your mother and I have to talk.”

Jasmine stood up from the table. “Are you going to be all right, Daddy?”

“I'll be fine, honey. Don't stay out too late. I want you home at a decent hour.”

“I will be, Daddy.” Jasmine kissed her father on the forehead and made a hasty exit.

From the kitchen Etta heard the loud voices and pressed her ear against the door.

Hezekiah waited to hear Jasmine close the front door before he spoke. “I want to talk to you about Catherine. You had no right to fire her. You crossed the line and you owe her an apology.”

“Crossed the line? You must be joking. I'm not the one fucking men in alleys, or park bathrooms, or wherever the hell it is that you go.”

Etta gasped behind the kitchen door.

Hezekiah stood up quickly and took a physically threatening stance. Samantha looked him in the eye and said, “What are you going to do, hit me?”

Hezekiah rushed toward her and slapped her hard on the cheek. Samantha's long hair swirled as she rebounded from the blow.

The force of the impact caused her to knock her plate off the table. After gaining her footing she stood upright and said, “So now you want to be a man. After seventeen fucking years, you want to be in charge now. I've got news for you, Reverend. It's too late! You never were a man and now you've proved it by letting some faggot fuck you in the ass.”

Hezekiah slapped her again. This time, before his hand completely cleared her face, she lunged at him and wrestled him to the floor. Dishes and glasses crashed to the carpet. The flower centerpiece toppled over and water splashed against the wall.

“I'll kill you, you fucking bastard. I'll kill you.” She pounded his head with her open palms. Hezekiah grabbed her neck and rolled her to her back. He straddled her chest while she continued to scream and claw at his face.

Etta burst through the kitchen door, screaming, “Pastor, no! Don't hit her.” She ran behind him and tried to pull him away from Samantha's thrashing body. “Pastor, no. You're going to kill her.”

When he heard Etta's voice, his hands froze. His eyes focused on Samantha's distorted face as she continued to spew obscenities. He pushed Etta aside and stood up.

Panting, Samantha moved away from him and scrambled to her knees, shouting through disheveled hair, “What's wrong—you not man enough to put me in my place?”

Hezekiah coldly stared at her and said nothing. He looked at Etta cowering next to the wall and yelled, “Don't just stand there. Clean this mess up!” He then gestured toward Samantha, still on her knees. “And get her out of here.”

Hezekiah turned and walked out of the room. Etta bent down to Samantha and tried to help her up.

Samantha snapped, “Don't touch me. And if you ever mention this to anyone, I swear I'll kill you.”

D
anny St. John stood beneath the freeway overpass, next to a pile of clothes, soiled blankets, and soggy newspapers. He was one block from the sprawling construction site of New Testament Cathedral. The smell of urine and human waste assaulted his nose.

Sounds from cars speeding overhead filled the air. Remains of a campfire burned in the distance, and a mother with two small children gathered a large stuffed plastic bag and dashed from the area before he could approach. As Danny walked toward two men sitting next to a cement pillar, which vibrated from the traffic above, the mud squished beneath his feet. Their foggy eyes became alert as he approached. One man struggled to his feet and tried to walk away.

“Wait a minute, guys,” Danny called out. “I'm not the police. My name is Danny. I'm an outreach worker.”

The two men seemed to relax and turn themselves over once again to their alcohol-induced haze.

“Hey, man,” one said, “you got any vitamins? I got a cold that I ain't been able to shake for weeks.”

They each wore blue jeans covered with mud. One was a Native American, and the other's thick drawl told of his deep Southern roots. Their shirts were torn and missing several buttons. Hair that had once been their crowns was matted and covered with unidentifiable white flecks. Danny rustled through his backpack and found two small bottles of vitamin C. “Here you go, guys,” he said, handing them the bottles. “I've also got clean socks if you need them.”

The Indian's words were slurred from three days of nonstop drinking. “Man, I been trying to get an affordable apartment for three years now, but they always tell me there ain't none available.”

“They told me I had to be sober before I could get an apartment,” the Southerner chimed in. “What kinda shit is that? If I could get sober by myself, I wouldn't need their motherfucking charity.”

Both men laughed in unison and leaned toward each other in a gesture of camaraderie. Danny had heard the story many times before.

“I know it's tough, guys, but if you come to my office, I can make a few calls for you and maybe get you in somewhere.”

The two men seemed startled by Danny's proposal.

“Man, I got an appointment at the welfare office this afternoon. Can I come in some other time?” came the response from the Southerner.

The Native American held up his hand, signifying his rejection of the offer.

Danny handed them his business card.

“My office hours are on the back. You can come in anytime. If I don't hear from you by next week, I'll check back here, if that's okay.”

“You guys oughta build more affordable housing,” said the Indian. “Somebody should tell the fucking pastor of that church over there that instead of building that fucking forty-five-million-dollar piece of shit, he oughta be building housing for poor people.”

As Danny walked to his car, he made a mental note of the conversation with the two men and the squalor in which they lived. He wanted to recount it to Hezekiah the next time he saw him.

 

Something was not quite right at New Testament Cathedral. Staff members speculated about the strange behavior of those closest to the pastor. Why had Hezekiah canceled all his afternoon appointments?

Why had Catherine barricaded herself in her office? “Hold all my calls” was the only instruction to the baffled secretary.

Why had Naomi suddenly dropped a wall of silence via an “urgent” e-mail sent to all department heads? It read:

“I heard the pastor collapsed last night and had to be rushed to the hospital” was the rumor whirling through the carpeted cubicles of the finance office.

“Naomi finally stood up for herself and told the pastor to get off her back” emerged as the top theory with the maintenance crew.

“Hezekiah caught Percy Pryce in bed with Samantha. They had a fight and Percy punched Hezekiah in the jaw. Didn't you see the scar on his face this morning?” The scintillation of this rumor made it the top choice for staff in the cafeteria.

New Testament Cathedral still looked the same. The grand main staircase continued to sweep elegantly to the main entrance. Sculpted white cherubs still dangled perilously from balconies. Mail room staff, on their usual morning rounds, delivered stacks of envelopes stuffed with cash and checks. This morning, however, the air was thick with a tension that caused conversations to halt suddenly when unfamiliar faces entered a room, or when a member of the pastor's inner circle walked by.

“Good morning, Naomi,” a brave staff member said as Naomi passed her in the hall. “Is everything all right with Pastor Cleaveland?”

Naomi recognized the woman's face but couldn't remember her name. “Why? What have you heard?” Naomi asked, slowing her pace only slightly.

“Someone said that he looked sick.”

Naomi turned her head to the woman, but her feet continued to move forward. “I just saw the pastor this morning. He looked fine to me. Only idiots believe the gossip they hear around here. What's your name?”

“Sarah,” said the startled woman.

“Sarah,” Naomi said, as if making a mental note. “I'll mention what you said to the pastor the next time I see him. I'm sure he'll want to know who said it.”

“I didn't mean…It was just something I heard from someone,” the panicked woman said to Naomi's back. “I would never gossip about the pastor.”

Naomi said over her shoulder, “Have a nice day, Sarah.”

 

Hattie Williams squirmed in her favorite chair as she dozed. An old gospel hymn crackled on the radio. She intermittently thrashed her head from side to side. “No, don't do it,” she mumbled in her sleep. “Look out, Pastor. Don't listen to them.”

The dream was so vivid, Hattie thought she was awake.

 

The church floor ripples to the rhythm of Hezekiah's beating heart as he falls in the sanctuary. From the top to the bottom, each pew ebbs and flows, mimicking the motion of an ocean wave.

Frightened people on the billowing pews ride the waves in horror as Hezekiah's body spirals downward. Women, wearing clothing inappropriate for such a turbulent sea, lose their footing as they look upward at the flying pastor. They tumble to the floor. Some hit the solid ground with a thud, while others scurry on hands and knees to avoid being crushed.

Chords of music screech from the pipe organ. The chandeliers flicker and shrieks of horror can be heard from every corner of the room. Suddenly the glass birds and cherubs in the stained-glass windows come to life and join Hezekiah in his flight. Beams of light reach through glass panels, trying to catch Hezekiah as he falls, but his twirling body eludes their grasp. He tumbles in the air like a leaf falling to the earth, which heralds the end of a long, hot summer, or a snowflake foretelling the cold winter to come. The fall seems endless. Laws of gravity have ceased and have left him suspended in air, unable to touch the ground below. He is a wounded bird in flight for all to see and pity.

Hezekiah looks down and suddenly sees the faces of his beloved members have contorted into hideous shapes, spewing bile and contempt.

“You lied to us, Hezekiah Cleaveland!” they shout.

“If God loved you so much, then why has he let you fall?” they challenge, mocking and laughing.

The chorus of truths causes Hezekiah's body to slow its descent. “Fall, Hezekiah Cleaveland,” they chant. “Fall!”

“God doesn't love you anymore!”

The bulging eyes and distorted face of Samantha Cleaveland appears on the balcony of the auditorium. A diamond bracelet on her wrist sparkles as she extends her long, deformed hands toward the falling Hezekiah, not to break his fall, but to speed it.

Hezekiah's plunge continues mercilessly as familiar faces, dreaded confrontations, and painful events flash in rapid succession through his mind. This is it. His life has been condensed into the eight seconds it took to fall to the earth.

“Please tick faster.” His eyes are pleading. “I don't want to see any more of my life. Please, God…let this end.”

 

Hattie violently jerked her head one last time and bolted upright in the chair. She was shaking and her brow was doused with perspiration. She gasped for breath as she gripped the cushioned arms of the chair.

Through anguished gasps Hattie cried out loud, “She's going to do it. Lord, you've got to stop her.”

 

Lance typed revisions to the article after his interview with Danny:

The telephone rang as he typed the final line. “Lance, I've been trying to reach you all week,” Cynthia Pryce said, sitting on her bed and removing her shoes. “What happened in the interview with Hezekiah?”

“It went as expected. He denied the affair.” Lance pressed the save button on his computer and continued speaking. “I talked to Danny St. John today.”

“What did he have to say for himself?”

“He denied it all as well. Said he never met Hezekiah Cleaveland. It was obvious he was lying, but it doesn't matter. The e-mail messages are enough to nail them both.”

“So what's next? When does the story run?”

“I just finished the revisions. Now I have to get my editor's approval, and that's it. It should be on the stands this Sunday morning.” Lance paused for a moment and then said, “I just have one more question for you, Cynthia.”

“What's that?”

“Why are you doing this to Hezekiah and Samantha?”

“I've already told you. Someone has to hold the Cleavelands accountable for his actions.”

“That is certainly understandable, but I feel like there's something you're not telling me. It's making me nervous about the whole story.”

“Nervous?” Cynthia countered. “This is the biggest story of your career. How can you even think about passing it up?”

“This isn't just about my career, Mrs. Pryce,” he said curtly. “It's about New Testament Cathedral, Hezekiah and Samantha Cleaveland, and Danny St John. It's about causing a lot of suffering for people in that church and around the country. It's about hurting a seemingly nice young guy who just got involved with the wrong person.”

“You don't have to tell me what's at stake.”

“That's what's confusing me. I get the feeling that you will actually gain more than anyone else if this story comes out.”

“That's ridiculous,” Cynthia said nervously. “What could I possibly gain from having my pastor exposed as a homosexual?”

“That's the exact question I need answered. And I think until I get that answer, I'm going to have to put the story on hold.”

It was risky, but Lance felt it was necessary to ensure the information Cynthia had provided was legitimate.

Cynthia felt trapped by the reporter who, until then, had gobbled hungrily every morsel she had laid before him.

“All right, Lance. I'll be honest with you. I do have ambitions of my own.”