Come Sunday Morning (5 page)

F
ortunately for Hezekiah, the protest on the grounds had ended before he left the church. A group of smiling tourists stopped him and requested photos with him as he walked through the first-floor lobby.

Always gracious to visitors, he shook their hands and posed for pictures. Hezekiah spoke kindly to the small group. “You should all move to Los Angeles,” he said. “We could use more dedicated Christians like you in our city.”

The group laughed and snapped more pictures as he walked through the doors.

It was a crisp clear day in the city. The grounds were now filled with office workers from the surrounding buildings leisurely reading newspapers and eating homemade lunches.

Dino Goodman stood next to the black Lincoln at the foot of the church steps. He was to drive Hezekiah to his standing Monday lunch with three of his oldest friends.

Dino was perfectly suited for the roles of muscular bodyguard, driver, and loyal keeper of all things secret. His brown trench coat wafted in the breeze, revealing a revolver nestled in a leather shoulder holster as Hezekiah approached.

Dino was the one person in the church who consistently saw the vulnerable Hezekiah Cleaveland from the unobstructed vantage of his rearview mirror. What would have shocked his flock the most were the countless hours Dino had spent late at night waiting in the limo outside the old converted Victorian in the Adams District.

Hezekiah was already ten minutes late when they arrived at the restaurant. It had taken him more energy than expected to recover from the confrontation with Lance Savage. His hand shook as he steadied himself to step from the rear of the car.

He heard a man yell out as he walked to the entrance, “Hey, it's Hezekiah Cleaveland!”

Hezekiah looked to his right and saw a wiry little black man with disheveled hair approaching. He wore ragged pants and walked with a limp.

Hezekiah waved, hoping the gesture would provide ample fodder for the little man to recount future stories of “the day I met Pastor Hezekiah Cleaveland.”

The tattered man was not satisfied. Dino saw the rapid pace at which he advanced and stepped in front of the man.

“Hey, Pastor Cleaveland!” the man blurted out as he tried in vain to walk around Dino. “You ought to be helping poor people in this city instead of building that megachurch.”

A lengthy barrage of insults from the scraggly man caused Hezekiah to halt in his tracks. He placed his hand firmly on Dino's shoulder and moved him to one side allowing the little man clear passage and said, “Maybe you should go back to wherever it is you came from?” With that, Hezekiah took a one-hundred-dollar bill from his wallet and threw it at the stunned man's feet. “That should be enough for a bus ticket out of town.”

The little vagrant stood speechless as Hezekiah disappeared through the restaurant door.

Hezekiah's first inclination had been to cancel the lunch with his three buddies. After anguished deliberation, he decided to meet with them to learn just how far rumors of his affair had spread.

Franco, the maître d' at Petro's Steak House, greeted his most famous customer. “Pastor Cleaveland,” he said, “good to see you, sir. Your party is waiting for you at your usual booth.”

Faded black-and-white photographs of famous Los Angeles athletes covered the walls of the dimly lit room. Booths with seating covered in cracking red vinyl were occupied by lawyers, construction workers, and every occupation in between. Dishes clanked and waiters moved through the room in a frenzied blur balancing trays piled with steaming dishes.

Rev. Jonathon Copperfield, a ruddy-faced pastor from Anaheim, was the first to see Hezekiah walking to the table. Hector Ramirez, the mayor of Los Angeles, was sitting next to him, and Phillip Thornton, the owner of the
Los Angeles Chronicle,
sat across the table.

All three men were natives of the city. If there was a secret worth telling in Los Angeles, one, if not all, of these men knew it.

Hezekiah was immediately struck by the absence of boisterous chatter that normally greeted him.

“Hello, gentlemen,” he said as he placed a linen napkin on his lap. “What's going on here? Who died?”

The three men exchanged momentary glances. Jonathon Copperfield was the first to speak.

“Nobody died, Hezekiah. We were just talking about some gossip Phillip heard last week.”

“All right, boys. Who's going to fill me in, or are we just going to change the subject to one you feel won't offend my delicate sensibilities?”

A heavyset waiter wearing a black vest, which barely concealed his bulging belly, came to the table and handed Hezekiah a menu.

“Good afternoon, Pastor Cleaveland,” he said jovially in a thick Italian accent. “Will you be having your usual or would you like to try something different today?”

Hezekiah placed his order and the waiter left the table.

“All right, Phillip,” Hezekiah said. “Who's trying to screw me over now? Come on, spill it.”

Phillip drank the last of his red wine.

“It's not about who's screwing you, Hezekiah,” he said. “It's more about who it is you're screwing.”

Hezekiah sat silent. There was a hush at the table when the waiter returned with a basket of steaming bread.

“I'll have another drink, Luigi,” Phillip said as the waiter walked away.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Hezekiah said.

“Come on, Hezekiah,” Hector said. “You know what this is about. Don't try to bullshit us. We've known each other too long for that. We all get our share of pussy in this town.” He leaned in and lowered his voice. “But a man? That's just sick. This country will never tolerate a faggot as the pastor of one of its largest churches.”

Hezekiah looked to the source of the information. “Phillip, this is all a lie. It's Lance Savage at your newspaper. He's been trying to dig something up on me ever since I broke ground on the new cathedral.”

“You say it's a lie,” said Phillip. “But, Lance says he has proof and can back up the entire story. Hezekiah, he's going to bury you with this one and there's nothing I can do about it.”

Hezekiah grew agitated. “What do you mean, nothing? It's your newspaper, Phillip. Stop the story. Fire him. Transfer him to Idaho. You could get him off my back if you wanted.”

“You know I don't have any editorial control, and besides, he's not the only one at the paper who knows about it. Lance has already briefed the managing editor and I understand he's just about finished with the final copy.”

There was a long pause and then Phillip continued. “How'd you let it get this far, Hezekiah? I thought your people were supposed to be out there making sure things like this never leaked out. You've dug your own grave this time and I can't pull you out.”

“You can do something about it,” Hezekiah said, throwing his napkin on the table. “You just won't. Your bottom line is selling that paper, and if it's at my expense, then so be it.”

“Hezekiah, wait a minute. That's not fair,” Jonathon Copperfield interjected. “This isn't Phillip's fault. You've only got yourself to blame for this one. If you just had to get your cock sucked by a man, you could have gone anywhere in the world. Instead, you chose to do it in your own backyard.” Jonathon stood from the table. “I can't take this anymore. This is just sick. Sick and stupid. I'm out of here.”

Jonathon wove through the neighboring tables and disappeared out the door. The remaining men sat in silence for what seemed like hours. Hezekiah, with his right hand over his mouth, stared blankly at the untouched basket of bread. Hector tapped his fingers on the bare wooden table and Phillip gulped down the remains of his second glass of wine.

The quiet was finally broken. “So what am I going to do?” Hezekiah said with his hand still cupped over his mouth. The torment in his voice was deafening. “If that story runs I'm through. I could kill that bastard….”

Hector cut him off. “Take it easy, Hezekiah. Look, you haven't denied it so I assume it's true.”

Hezekiah's silence served as confirmation.

“Oh shit. This is crazy,” Hector said. “You throw away your whole ministry for a dick. How could you let this happen? You're too smart for this, Hezekiah.” There was a pause. Then, “I don't think you have any choice other than to step down.”

Hezekiah sat astonished, unable to speak. At that moment life slowly began to seep from his body.

S
amantha Cleaveland lay awake in the massive oak bed as Hezekiah slept at her side. It was 7:10 on Tuesday morning. She'd been awake since 5:30
A.M
., staring out the window, watching the sun rise over the city. The bed headboard loomed above their heads like the facade of an Italian cathedral with peaks that almost reached the ceiling. Ornately carved mahogany pillars stood at the foot of the massive structure.

The bed had belonged to her deceased mother, Florence Weaver. A few porcelain figurines and the bed were the only items belonging to Florence that Samantha felt worthy of occupying space in her home after her mother died.

Samantha often wondered how Mama Flo, as everyone called her, could have afforded the magnificent piece of furniture. She wished her mother could have seen the bed in its opulent new home. Samantha knew that Mama Flo would have been very impressed.

A vanity with a large oval etched mirror was perfectly positioned to catch the light from the window. The surface held expensive perfumes, which provided more evidence for discerning noses that Samantha wore only the finest of everything. Fresh flowers sat on a table between two overstuffed chairs. The mantel over the fireplace held more gold-framed pictures of the Cleavelands.

Hezekiah jerked as he grudgingly emerged from a fitful sleep. Silk pajamas stroked his skin with each twist of his body. For a brief luxurious moment he could feel Danny nuzzling his ear and stroking his thick black hair. He slowly entered the reality of his true location as his eyes adjusted to the light and saw the oak posts standing guard at his feet.

“What time is it?” he asked, sitting up abruptly.

Samantha looked up and then rolled onto her side with her back to him “Seven-ten,” she curtly replied.

“Why didn't you wake me? You know I have to meet with the contractor this morning.”

“Where were you last night?”

“Don't start, Samantha. I don't have time for your paranoia this morning,” he snapped, and stormed into the adjoining master bathroom.

“You're not going to put me through this again!” she shouted, jumping from the bed and throwing a pillow behind him. “I won't stand by and let you humiliate me again!” Her rage was legendary behind closed doors in the Cleaveland house, but this time it was different.

The image of the pistol in her purse flashed as she continued to scream and burst through the bathroom door. “You can't do this to me again!”

Hezekiah had already removed his pajamas and was stepping into the shower when she entered. His long, muscular body gave no hint of his divine calling. Without his clothes he didn't look like the elegant clergyman most knew but rather like a man who could satisfy the most carnal of desires.

On most mornings Hezekiah would meditate under the flow of hot water, but this morning his ritual was interrupted by the attack escalating beyond the glass shower door.

“Who is she?” Samantha demanded. “Is she from church? Is it Catherine? I should have never let you hire that bitch!”

“Leave Catherine out of this,” he sternly shouted over the shower door. “She doesn't have anything to do with this.”

“Then who is it? You've already fucked half the staff. Who's left?”

Exhausted and broken by a long year of lying, and now her tirade, Hezekiah placed his hands against the tile above his head and shouted, “It's nobody from church, all right?”

He began to sob into the stream of water flowing on his face as the words fell without consent from his wet lips.

“I knew it. You fucking bastard. How could you do this to me again? Who the fuck is she?”

Samantha violently swung open the shower door. She reached in through the stream of water and grabbed one hand from his face. “I want to know who she is.”

Hezekiah tried to pull away but her grip was too firm. His face, dripping with water and tears, turned away from her gaze.

Samantha stepped into the shower and pushed Hezekiah against the marble-tiled wall. Water from the gushing nozzle drenched her nightgown and caused her hair to flop and dangle over her eyes.

Hezekiah backed away to the rear of the space but she matched him step for step. “Hezekiah, you can't do this to me again,” she said, pulling his head toward her. “I can't go through this again with you.”

Hezekiah jerked his hand from her grasp and leaned against the wall. “You're making a fool of yourself, Samantha. Get out of here. We can talk about this later.”

Samantha then pulled Hezekiah's body from the shower.

“We'll talk about it now,” she said, blocking his reflection in the mirror. “What if someone finds out? Everything we've worked for will be destroyed.”

“I don't want to talk about it right now. I'm already late for an appointment,” he snapped.

Samantha jerked his head up and looked him in the eye. “Fuck your appointment. There is nothing more important than this right now. You have to talk about it. I'm not going to let you ruin me. I'm not going to let you destroy everything we've built. Now tell me who she is.”

Hezekiah did not respond.

“You're leaving me no choice, Hezekiah. I won't be humiliated. If you don't tell me I'm going to expose you. I'm not going down with you.”

Hezekiah looked her in the eyes and grabbed her shoulders and held her steady.

“Don't threaten me, Samantha.”

Samantha winced from his tight grip and demanded, “Let go of me, Hezekiah.”

“Don't ever threaten me. This is my life and my ministry.”

“It's not your life. It's
our
life and I made this ministry what it is. I'm not going to let you destroy it and me as well.”

Samantha broke free and ran to the bedroom. Hezekiah ran behind and grabbed her bobbing wet hair. With one forceful yank he pulled her backward, causing her knees to buckle. She groped for a chair to maintain balance but he pulled harder, sending her tumbling to the carpet. Hezekiah straddled her chest, pinning her body to the floor. He jerked her head up and said, “If you tell anyone about this, I'll…”

Samantha thrashed beneath the full weight of his body. Her flailing legs toppled a table, sending a vase filled with flowers, and two of her mother's porcelain figurines crashing to the floor. Hezekiah grabbed her wrists to restrain her. Her hips bucked upward and from side to side. She twisted and turned but Hezekiah's weight held her pinned on her back.

“You'll what?” she screamed, clawing at his face. “Kill me?”

Blood flowed from the scratches on Hezekiah's face and dripped onto Samantha's as she yelled obscenities and clawed viciously. “Get the fuck off me!”

Samantha finally was able to squirm from beneath him and scrambled to her feet. Her wet, tangled, and tossed hair flew in every direction. The straps of her nightgown flopped from her shoulders, exposing her breast. Years of suppressed rage exploded onto her bloodstained face.

“You're pathetic!” she raved as she backed away from him. She picked up a book which was sitting on a table near the window and threw it at Hezekiah. “I can't wait for the whole world to find out exactly who you are. I hope the bitch is worth it because she just cost you every fucking thing you ever worked for.”

Hezekiah looked up in amazement. He had never seen the woman who stood howling before him. He didn't recognize the rage nor had he ever encountered such unbridled anger from another human being.

Samantha picked up a silver dish from a nearby table and flung it at Hezekiah. He ducked, causing the dish to whiz over his head and crash into the wall with a loud metallic clank.

“Break it off with her now or I'll tell everyone the truth about the great Hezekiah T. Cleaveland. You'll end up like all those other redneck ministers crying like idiots on television, begging the world to forgive you because you can't keep your dick in your pants.”

Hezekiah stared blankly for moments at the raging woman; then he began to sob again.

“I can't break it off with her,” he finally said.

“Oh my God, is she pregnant?”

“No,” he said through mounting tears.

“Then why not, you coward?”

“Because…it's not a woman.”

Samantha froze in place. Her heaving chest was the only thing moving on her body. Each breath she took caused her still exposed breast to rise up and down. She looked at him with a puzzled expression and asked through deep, gasping breaths, “What do you mean it's not a woman?”

“Just what I said. It's not a woman. It's a man.”

 

Hezekiah came downstairs and was greeted by Etta. His eyes, behind dark sunglasses, were red and his face was puffy.

“Good morning, Pastor,” Etta said as she wiped her hands on her apron. “Are you all right? I hope you're not coming down with that flu that's going around. Let me feel your head.”

Hezekiah moved away from her like a frightened child. “I'm all right, Etta. My allergies are acting up again.” He turned his back to her and walked toward the door.

“Aren't you having breakfast this morning? I made your favorite—eggs Benedict, blueberry muffins, and a strong pot of coffee.”

“Not today. I'm running late.” With that, he picked up his keys from the table in the foyer and left the house.

 

Samantha sat, still moist from the shower, curled on the sofa in the living room. Her silk robe held tight around her waist and legs under her body. Etta looked at the figure of the woman and knew something was seriously wrong. Samantha hadn't given the pastor her usual litany of directives before he left the house. She quietly withdrew to the safety of her kitchen.

Under normal circumstances Samantha would also have provided him with a better cover story for his unusual behavior. However, this morning she just sat and continued looking out the window. She no longer had the desire or strength to use her well-honed skills of deception.

“Sammy. Open the door, honey. It's me, Sandra,” Sandra Kelly said, ringing the bell and pounding on the front door.

Sandra Kelly was one of Samantha's closest confidantes. They had gone to college together and over the years had remained friends and mutually supportive. Samantha had comforted Sandra through her first and second divorces, a series of abusive boyfriends, and the meteoric rise of her law career. In turn, Sandra had nursed Samantha through Hezekiah's many affairs and coached her through the political and social labyrinth that was the lot of every powerful pastor's wife.

Sandra was one of the most sought-after attorneys in California and represented only high-profile clients who could guarantee her prime-time coverage on CNN, or an interview with Anderson Cooper. They were sisters, but the only common blood they shared was the pain endured at the hands of the men they loved.

Samantha looked through the beveled-glass window-pane of the double front door to ensure that Sandra was alone, and then hurriedly unlatched the locks.

Sandra was an attractive woman with a slight masculine air about her. She frequently wore navy blue pant-suits with the lapel of a white silk blouse framing her full and deep cleavage. Today was no exception. “Sammy, are you okay? I came as soon as I got your message. Is he still here? Did he hurt you, honey?”

Samantha collapsed sobbing into Sandra's arms. The silk robe draped off her bare shoulder. “Oh, Sandra,” she cried. “I thought he was going to kill me. I've never seen him like that before.”

“Where is Etta?” Sandra asked.

“I don't know. As usual she disappeared after Hezekiah left.”

“Stop crying, honey, and tell me what happened.”

Sandra led her to the living-room sofa. As Sandra sat, she saw drops of blood on Samantha's face.

“Oh my God, Samantha. You're bleeding. What did that son-of-a-bitch do to you?”

Samantha wiped the blood from her cheek with a shaking hand.

“This isn't my blood. It's Hezekiah's. I confronted him about having another affair. We got into an argument and he went berserk. He attacked me. He jumped on top of me, choking me, and I scratched his face.” She began to sob again. “It was horrible, Sandra. I swear he was trying to kill me.”

Sandra retrieved a hand towel from a powder room off the entry hall and handed it to Samantha.

“All right, honey, it's over now. Everything is going to be fine. That cheating bastard will get what's coming to him one day, I promise you. When are you going to wise up and leave that asshole?”

The question registered slowly.
I won't have to leave him,
Samantha thought. Soon Hezekiah Cleaveland would be out of her life for good. She would be free from the man whom she now loathed. A smile, ever so slight, crept across her blood-smeared face.

The telephone on a side table rang and Samantha jumped. “I don't want to answer that. It might be him. Would you get it, Sandra?”

“Hello,” Sandra said calmly. “Cleaveland residence.”

“Who is this?” Hezekiah growled from the rear of the limousine.

“Oh, hello, Hezekiah. This is Sandra. Samantha can't come to the phone right now. She's busy wiping your blood off her face.”

Sandra sat on the sofa and crossed her legs. Her face contorted into that of an attorney preparing for a fierce courtroom battle.

As Dino maneuvered the winding hills away from the Cleaveland estate, Hezekiah pressed the button to raise the window that separated the rear cabin of the car from the driver's section. He put the phone on speaker and calmly replied, “Don't start with me this morning, Sandra. I'm not in the mood. Put her on the phone.”

“Hezekiah, do you need a building to fall on you to realize how much you're hurting Samantha?”

“This is none of your business. This is between me and my wife.”

“It becomes my business when you hurt someone I love. If you're not careful, she might accidentally talk to the media about how you physically assaulted your loving wife and have been cheating on her since the day you married. You'd be a laughingstock, the butt of every joke on late-night talk shows.”