The First Lady (20 page)

So, what’s stopping you?
I asked myself right before I walked out of my office behind her.

Lust, that’s what was stopping me. I had to resist my lustful urges and examine my conscience. But that wasn’t the only thing that stopped me from following Monique.

As I turned the corner, I saw Lisa standing there, chatting away with two other female members of the congregation. I should have known she would find a reason to stall and hang around. Seeing her there was like a cold shower of reality, reminding me of just the kind of man I am—a man of God. I slowed my pace.

Lisa looked up and smiled when she noticed me.

Good, she’s not angry,
I thought. At least she didn’t look angry. Then again, that could have been a front for the two women she was talking to. I wondered briefly if they had noticed Monique exiting the hallway near my office, but as I watched them wrap up their conversation, no one’s face betrayed any sort of indignation. They seemed to be having a perfectly innocent conversation, which ended with quick hugs and a good-bye from Lisa as she left them and approached me.

I looked over Lisa Mae’s shoulder and I saw Monique making her way through the church doors. My heart fluttered briefly, but I stayed in my spot, hoping I wouldn’t regret letting her walk out. I plastered a big smile on my face as I reached out my hand to Lisa.

“So, did you two get your little talk out of the way?” Lisa Mae asked, trying her best to hide the underlying sarcasm that laced her tone. It didn’t go unnoticed, but I chose not to respond to it.

“As a matter of fact, we did,” I answered, taking her hand in mine. “And trust me, there won’t be any more talks needed between Sister Monique and myself,” I said, watching a slight smile creep across Lisa’s lips. She had such an angelic smile, I thought, a smile that any person who walked into the sanctuary would love to be greeted by. Yes, that right there was the smile of a first lady.

Just as quickly as that thought entered my mind, the angelic smile disappeared. It was as if someone had tapped her on the shoulder and reminded her of the situation.

“And just why should I believe that, T.K.? Why should I believe that there will be no more
private talks
with sisters like Monique and Savannah Dickens? Every time I look up, there’s a woman in your face. It’d be nice if everyone knew what direction our relationship was going in. It would be nice if
I
knew what direction it was going in.”

Her statement made me freeze for a moment. Was she hinting that she wanted a ring? Yes, I think she was. The question was, Was I ready to give her one?

“I can understand where you’re coming from, Lisa, and why you might feel a little insecure about things, but you have to remember, I’m the pastor of the church,” I said, grabbing her soft, delicate hands and looking into her eyes. “I have to listen to the women’s problems as well as the men. But believe me when I say that you are the woman I want to be with. I made that very clear to Sister Monique. Besides, everybody sees it, Lisa. Everybody but you.”

“Bishop …,” she said as she put her head down. I suspected she was trying to blink away the tears that had formed in the corners of her eyes.

“I mean it, Lisa,” I continued. “Sister Monique is not a threat to you.”

“What about Sister Savannah?”

“She’s not a threat, either. From everything I can see, you’re the one for me. I don’t believe in long engagements, so I just need a little more time to get to know you.”

Almost forgetting where I was, I leaned in to kiss Lisa, but before our lips could touch, a voice interrupted the moment.

“Well, look at you two lovebirds.” My secretary, Alison, seemed to appear out of nowhere. “But you two better be careful.” She lowered her voice to a dramatic whisper. “Everybody pretty much knows that you two are an item, but you still don’t want to give folks something to talk about by making out in the church lobby,” she said, chuckling.

“You’re right, Sister Alison,” Lisa said coyly. “We won’t do it again.”

“No problem,” Alison replied. “Just glad I showed up when I did before you two kids got out of hand.” Alison laughed at her own joke, then turned toward me, looking at my mouth. “Although, it looks like I might have been a little too late, after all.”

She took a tissue from her purse and wiped the side of my mouth. “Nice color,” she said to Lisa with a wink, referring to the lipstick that was smeared on the tissue.

I closed my eyes and listened as Alison’s footsteps faded, afraid to look at Lisa Mae. I wasn’t sure if when I opened them I’d see a hand coming at me, or even worse, Lisa would be gone. But when I did open my eyes, neither of my fears came to pass. Lisa was standing there with arms folded and bottom lip trembling.

“Yes, Bishop, it is a nice color,” Lisa pouted icily. “Too bad it’s not mine.”

I was dreaming about Bishop Wilson making love to me when the aggravating buzz from my alarm clock woke me out of a deep sleep. I still couldn’t get my mind off him, and dreaming about our lovemaking had become a nightly occurrence. I missed him so much. I just couldn’t find it within myself to face him. This was the third Sunday in a row I’d set my alarm clock for church, only to hit the
off
button after deciding not to go to church after all. Lord knows if I walked in there and saw the bishop and that Lisa Mae all hugged up or something, I was liable to show my—well, I think you know what I mean.

On that thought, I decided not to lie in bed all day wondering what was going on over at First Jamaica Ministries or what word God had put in Bishop T.K. Wilson’s heart to deliver. Instead, I was going to get up, read my Bible, go to Curves, and maybe take a walk in the park or go see a movie. If the bishop wasn’t man enough to stand up for what he wanted—and everything in that man’s eyes told me that he wanted me—then so be it. I damn sure wasn’t going to waste my time waiting for him. Sooner or later his dick would get hard, and when it did, he’d beg me to give him some, just like every other man who’d ever had a taste of this. Then we’d see whose foot the shoe was on.

I threw the covers off and headed for the bathroom, where I opened up my medicine cabinet to grab the bottle of vitamin C. As I reached for it, I knocked over the box next to it, and down came my tampons, tumbling into the sink.

“Damn it!” I shouted as I began to gather them. Just as I was putting the last one into the box, a horrifying thought came to mind. Immediately, I dropped the box and ran into the kitchen, scanning over the calendar attached to the refrigerator by a magnet that had the church’s mission statement on it.

“Oh, no,” I softly whispered. “Oh, no.” I closed my eyes, praying I’d wake up from what could only be called a nightmare. My hand covered my mouth, but still I repeated the only phrase my brain seemed to be able to communicate. “Oh, no.”

I made my way trancelike back to my bedroom and sat down on the bed. “Oh, my God, no. I’m three weeks late. No. This can’t be right.”

Refusing to believe that my monthly cycle was almost a month late, I ran back into the kitchen to recheck the dates. Sure enough, I hadn’t had a period since a week before that night with the bishop. I began to fight back the tears of fear that swelled up in my eyes.

“It’s just the stress is all,” I tried to convince myself as I paced back and forth. “It’s just me putting my body through all this mess worrying about that man. I’m not pregnant. I’m too old to be pregnant.”

The last thing I needed was to be pregnant with the bishop’s baby. Those wenches at that church would stone me for sure. They already thought that just because every man in the church couldn’t keep his eyes off me, including some of their husbands, I wanted to sleep or had slept with each and every one of them. To turn up pregnant with the bishop’s baby would be the final nail in the coffins—mine and his.

Frantically, I ran back into my bedroom and picked up the phone to dial my mother’s number in Mississippi. As the phone rang three times with no answer, I prayed that I hadn’t missed her before she had left for church. My momma, like me, was a big churchwoman.

“Hello,” she finally answered, out of breath, like she had run to the phone.

Although I tried to hide my despair, my voice quivered slightly as I spoke into the receiver. “Hey, Ma, it’s me.”

“Monique? Is everything all right? You sound like you been cryin'.” I opened my mouth but nothing came out. “Monique? You there?”

Finally I spoke, if you want to call it speaking. But technically it was a bunch of jibber-jabber as my eyes flooded with tears and a wailing sound rose from the back of my throat. I was able, though, to get the last sentence out clearly. “And I don’t know what I’m going to do,” I cried.

“First off, just calm down. Secondly, I didn’t hear a word you just said. All I could make out was,
Bishop, late,
and
baby.”
And then it must have hit my mother like a ton of bricks almost as hard as it had hit me. “Oh Lord, Monique. You’re not … not pregnant, are you?”

“Oh, Momma, what am I going to do?” I wiped away my tears, finally able to form an intelligible sentence.

“Well, the first thing you’re going to do is stop worrying about it. Worry is the thief of joy. And besides, what good is sitting around worrying about something that very well may be nothing at all? It could just be your nerves or something. You’re going to be forty-one in a few months, so you could even be experiencing signs of early menopause. I started getting hot flashes in my early forties,” she said with certainty. I don’t know if she was really so sure or if she was just pretending to be, because that was easier than facing the reality that I could be in a whole heap of trouble.

“You really think so, Momma?” I asked, wanting her to be right.

“Who knows? It’s possible.” Her voice was not convincing. She changed her tune a little to allow for the possibility that I might be pregnant. “Besides, you said you wanted to be first lady of that church, didn’t you? Well, if you’re pregnant, it looks like you gonna get your wish. He’s going to have to marry you. I always knew you were going to amount to something.”

“But, Momma, I didn’t wanna become first lady this way. I wanted him to fall in love with me.” I started to cry.

“Girl, how many times I gotta tell you? The only thing a man loves about a woman is between her legs. Now, this is not for you to cry and carry on about. If you’re pregnant, that man has a responsibility to marry you, just like Reverend Johnson, God rest his soul, had a responsibility to marry me. Hopefully your Bishop Wilson is more of a man than Reverend Johnson was. Only thing I got from that man was $200 and a train ticket from Atlanta to Jackson, Mississippi.”

“Momma, he was already married at the time.”

“He sure didn’t act like it when he was pulling down my britches. No, then he was as sweet as sugarcane in the summertime. Just like all the rest of ‘em.”

My momma had a lot of issues when it came to my daddy, and to men in general. I guess that’s what happens when you have six kids by four different men.

“Now, I was on my way out the door to church, but I want you to promise me that you’ll try to relax and get some rest. You can call the doctor first thing in the morning and see if you can’t get in for an appointment to get checked out. But like I said, it’s probably nothing.”

I think my mother really believed she was reassuring me, but all she was really doing was making me nervous. I wanted to tell her that, but you don’t tell my mother anything. She’s the type of woman who tells you.

I took a deep breath to calm myself before I spoke. “Okay, I’ll try to keep myself busy and not think about it. I’ll call the doctor first thing in the morning,” I promised before ending the call. I then rested the phone in the cradle and stared at it for a moment, replaying my mother’s words in my head.

Relax and get some rest … call the doctor first thing in the morning… . It’s probably nothing.

“The hell it ain’t nothing,” I said as I jumped out of my bed, threw on some clothes, and darted out my front door. This was something. My period was never late.

Once I arrived at the drugstore, I was overwhelmed by all the different types of pregnancy tests filling two rows of shelves. Piss on that, stick that here and poke that in there—sounded like having sex all over again. Freaky sex anyway. After about ten minutes of reading the instructions on the different boxes, I decided to purchase an EPT, which was one I had seen in commercials and magazine ads. Supposedly it gave the most accurate results and could detect pregnancy in its most early stages. Grabbing it off the shelf, I made a beeline to the checkout counter.

There were three people in front of me, including one who wanted to argue with the clerk about the price he was ringing up for the laundry detergent she was purchasing. Once the clerk finally got her squared away, he was able to wait on the next person, who couldn’t remember whether she was supposed to be picking up a pack of lights or menthol for her aunt. So, she had to pull out her cell phone to call her and ask. After determining that it was menthol, she made her purchase, and the last gentleman in front of me was able to quickly complete his transaction.

“Sister Monique?” I heard a voice just as I laid the pregnancy test down on the counter.

This really can’t be happening,
I thought, but once I heard my name a second time, I knew it was real. I wanted to grab the pregnancy test and hide it, but the clerk had already scanned it. There was nothing left to do but turn around, smile, and try to act nonchalant.

“Hey … Sister Alison …” I said, hoping my smile didn’t look as insincere as it felt. “How you doing? Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I’ve been standing behind you in line the entire time and didn’t even know it was you.” She then held up a bottle of cold tablets. “My husband believes he’s coming down with a bug or something, and I told him I’d pick him up a little something for it before we went to church.” She eyeballed me up and down, examining my gray-hooded sweat suit. It was something I worked out in but never would have been caught wearing in public before now.