The First Lady (24 page)

“Say no more, Bishop. I’m on my way. Just give me a minute, though. I need to tell someone I’m leaving.”

“Well, that’s okay, Savannah. I hate to interrupt what you’re doing. I actually need you tomorrow anyway. Are you available in the morning? I have a meeting I need to make, and I don’t want to leave Marlene here by herself.”

“Sure. I can be there as early as you need. How about eight o’clock?”

“Eight o’clock will be fine. Thank you, Savannah.”

“You’re welcome. And, Bishop, if you don’t mind, let’s keep the fact that I wasn’t with you today between you and me.”

I wasn’t exactly happy about it, but I needed her help, so I couldn’t very well refuse. “Savannah, I don’t know what you’re up to, but just be careful,” I cautioned. Then, to lighten the mood a bit, I added, “And since you’re coming to my house for real tomorrow morning, you can tell your father the truth.”

We laughed together, then said our good-byes.

I went over to where I’d left the pictures scattered, stuffed them back into the box, put on the lid, and then placed it on the table next to my chair. Then I went to the bathroom to retrieve Marlene’s dirty clothes. As I walked toward the laundry room, I had to hold them at arm’s length because of the smell.

I dumped the clothes into the washing machine and was just about to add some soap when I decided to check her pockets. I doubted she had any money, but there was always the possibility she might be carrying some ID.

I went into one pocket and found only a glass stem. That would go straight into the trash. In the other pocket I found a folded piece of paper that was so tattered, she had obviously been carrying it for weeks. But as worn as it was, something about the lavender paper seemed familiar. Suddenly, a thought struck me. I remembered where else I had seen this shade of paper. Was it possible? Could it be? Nah, it couldn’t be, I decided, yet my curiosity compelled me to open the paper. As I unfolded it, my hands began to tremble. I struggled to comprehend what I had just discovered. The paper was the same stationery on which my deceased wife had written to me and to Lisa Mae. Marlene, it seemed, had also received a message from the grave.

After reading the note, which basically scolded Marlene for slipping back into drug use, I was surprised but also a bit ashamed. I loved my wife with all my heart, but this note reminded me of the qualities she possessed of which I was least proud. When she wanted, my wife could be a very kind, caring person. But just as often, she lacked compassion and was quite demanding of others. I had told Charlene many times the story of my own struggle with drug addiction, which I might never have survived if it weren’t for the encouragement of Reverend Jackson, Charlene’s father. So, my wife knew as well as I did that an addict needs love and understanding to rise above the drugs. What Marlene needed most right now was some genuine kindness, but this letter seemed to condemn her more than support her. Could this letter have pushed Marlene into an even deeper despair? I would never be sure, but of one thing I was certain: now I was even more convinced that Marlene’s recovery from addiction was my responsibility.

With the letter in hand, I walked down the hall and into my living room, where I stood glaring at a large portrait of my deceased wife. “How many of these damn things did you send out?” I yelled in anger at the picture. “Is this what sent Marlene over the edge? Do you have any idea what type of pressure you put on her? I can’t believe you. Have you been trying to drive her crazy from the grave?”

In my mind I ran through the list of people who might be sending these letters—or perhaps even writing them. Was it a friend or an enemy? Each letter I had read seemed to be written in words and phrases that came from my wife. Could someone have stolen her stationery and imitated her style? I doubted that was possible, nor could I imagine what reason anyone would have to do such a thing. No, I concluded, this was Charlene’s doing.

“You have no right to play God with these people’s lives, Charlene. You have no right to play God with my life. And I’m not going to have it. I’m going to figure out who you’ve got delivering letters.”

It was a few weeks from the day I bought the pregnancy test. Things had been difficult for me since I took the test and confirmed that I was indeed pregnant with Bishop T.K. Wilson’s child. I spent a few days in utter shock, not even calling my mother to tell her the news. I don’t know, maybe I thought that if I didn’t acknowledge it, it wouldn’t actually be true. But of course it was true, and once the numbness wore off, I knew I had some serious decisions to make.

Could I be a single mother? I had done it before with my other two boys, but look how that turned out. They didn’t even live with me now. Yes, I was a good mother, but when it came right down to it, those boys hit their teenage years with a vengeance and I didn’t feel equipped to deal with them, so they went to live with their father. What if this baby I was carrying was another boy? Would he have to go live with his father too?

And that, of course, brought me to the biggest question of all: Was I going to tell the bishop that I was pregnant? There was always the option of abortion, I suppose. I could terminate the pregnancy, and the bishop would never even have to know I had been carrying his child. But no, I was a Christian woman, so it really wasn’t even something I would consider. This child was coming into the world whether or not I was prepared.

The next idea that entered my mind was adoption. I could have the child easily enough. I had already stopped going to church, so it wouldn’t be that hard to conceal my pregnancy from the bishop. It wasn’t like he was dying to get in contact with me or anything. Shoot, I hadn’t even heard from him since our last conversation, when he told me about him and Lisa Mae. As long as I didn’t run into anyone from the church while my belly was swollen, word would never get back to him. Then I could have the baby and give it away, and he would be none the wiser.

I spent a few days and even more sleepless nights thinking about this option. For a while, it seemed to be the best choice. That way, I could get on with my life once the nine months were over, as if nothing had ever happened. I might even be able to forget about how close I came to being the bishop’s woman, after enough time had passed.

Of course, in order to forget about him, I would never again be able to attend Bishop T.K. Wilson’s church, never again set eyes on him. That was when I decided to visit some other area churches, to find a new spiritual home. One of those other churches, though, was the place where I realized I couldn’t just have this baby without at least telling the bishop. The pastor at this church had just finished speaking about the need for positive black male role models for our children. He urged all the men in the church to stay active in the lives of not only their own children, but also those of their friends, family, and neighbors.

I started thinking about Bishop Wilson and his family. He had raised two children who became happy, successful adults. He was also a powerful role model in the lives of so many other children. Could I really deny this child the right to get to know this great man, its father? He might have wronged me and hurt me deeply, but Bishop T.K. Wilson was still a good man, and any child would be lucky to have him for a father.

When I went home that day and called my mother to finally tell her about it, she supported my decision, although her perspective was a little different from mine. She thought that he should be involved with the child and that I should convince him to kick Lisa Mae to the curb so I could marry him. I tried to tell her that wasn’t happening, but my mother doesn’t give up that easily. So, I said whatever she wanted to hear to get her off the phone, but in my heart I knew I wouldn’t be trying to win him back. I did not want to humiliate myself by trying to force a relationship on a man who had made it clear I wasn’t good enough to be by his side. No, I would just tell him the news, then leave the ball in his court.

The problem, of course, was that I had no way of knowing how he would react to the news. He had already proven that he was heavily influenced by the opinions of his church members. Would this weakness also guide his decisions when it came to an unborn child? I worried that I might tell him about this child only to get a rude awakening about the bishop’s true character. Regardless of his possible reactions, though, I knew I had to tell him. It was the right thing to do. And if he rejected me and the child, I told myself, I could easily go back to my plan of finding a suitable family to adopt the child.

When I gathered my courage, I put on a loose-fitting dress to hide the first signs of a bulge in my abdomen, and headed for the church. It was probably the most conservative dress I had ever worn to church, and the irony was painful. If only they knew what had made me finally put on a dress that they would deem appropriate. Some of the most judgmental women might just keel over on the spot. But I didn’t care. No matter how hard it would be, now that I was back, I would not let anyone chase me from my church home.

Yes, First Jamaica Ministries still felt like home. As I took the first steps into the church after what I thought had been a permanent exit, I was surprised by how good it felt to be there. I felt more at peace than I had in weeks. I got down on my knees in the quiet sanctuary and prayed to God, asking Him to watch over me and this unborn child, to forgive me for my past mistakes and to help me move forward into happiness and renewed devotion to Him.

When I finished my prayers, I got up from the pews and walked toward the administrative wing. The bishop and I were way overdue for a talk. I was nervous but determined, certain that in the end, God would work things out.

When I reached the door to the bishop’s office, I saw that it was closed. I turned toward the door marked
secretary,
wishing there were some other way I could do this. Sister Alison was the only person in the church who even had an inkling about why I had been away from church for so long. She was probably the last person I wanted to face now, especially since she’d spot the loose-fitting dress and guess the rest. But I couldn’t worry about that. I had gathered the confidence to do this, and if I left now, I might never have the nerve to come back. I turned the doorknob slowly, took a deep breath, pasted a fake smile on my face, and walked in.

“Hey, Sister Alison,” I said casually, as if the last time we spoke I hadn’t spilled my guts to her.

Alison’s head snapped back like she’d just seen a ghost. There was a flicker of something in her eyes that made me pause for a moment and wonder if I was making a mistake by being in there with her. But it passed quickly as she greeted me with what sounded like sincere enthusiasm.

“Sister Monique, where’ve you been? I been worried sick about you.” She got up from behind her desk and gave me a huge hug and kiss. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with you for two weeks now. I thought you said you were going to start coming to church again.”

She had been calling me ever since our conversation at the coffee shop. As a matter of fact, she’d left quite a few messages, and her concern was touching. She was a much sweeter person than I ever could have imagined. Still, while I was fretting over the decisions I had to make, I couldn’t bring myself to return her calls. It was days before I could even speak to my own mother about it, so although I had poured my heart out to Alison once in the coffee shop, I just couldn’t bring myself to confide in her again. I erased each of her messages as she left them.

“I’m sorry, Sister Alison. As you already know, I’ve had a lot on my mind lately. I kinda lost my way from God for a little while. But I think I’ve found my way back to Him now.”

“Well, I’m sure He’s glad to have you back. Has everything been confirmed?”

I wasn’t quite sure what she meant at first, until she peeked around the corner like someone could be listening, then rubbed her belly.

“Has everything been confirmed?” she asked again.

“Oh, confirmed.” I nodded my understanding as I gently touched my stomach. “Yes, everything’s been confirmed.” If she honestly didn’t know, I guess I was wrong about my dress being a dead giveaway. This thought was actually comforting, because it meant that I wasn’t showing yet. I might have a few weeks to attend services without the stares I would get once my belly popped out. Oh, who was I kidding? Those heifers had been giving me ugly looks forever, and that wasn’t about to change.

“Have you decided what’s best for you? You know, about um …” She scratched her head as she peeked out the door again.

There must be a lot of nosy people in this building because Sister Alison seemed pretty paranoid.

“I’m still praying on it, Sister Alison. I know God is helping me with the situation right now.”

“Good … good. As long as you’re okay. And just so you know, Monique, I’m keeping you lifted in my prayers also.”

“Thanks, Alison. I really appreciate that. It’s good to know somebody in my church family cares.” As nice as that was, I was still eager to change the subject. “Have you seen the bishop?”

No sooner had the words left my mouth than Trustee Black appeared as if from thin air. Now I understood Sister Alison’s concern about who might be listening. I was grateful that she hadn’t spoken the word
pregnancy
out loud. I shot her a glance, hoping she understood how much I appreciated her discretion.

“Sister Monique,” Trustee Black said in a very condescending tone. “The bishop’s not in right now. He’s been handling some personal business. Can I help you?”

I did my best to keep my tone civil. “No, I really need to see him. Do you know when he’ll be back?” For all I knew, the bishop was behind his closed office door, and Trustee Black was just running interference to keep me away from him.

“Like I said, it’s personal, so I’m not sure. But I’m glad you came by. I’ve wanted to talk to you for a while.”

“Trustee, I really just came by to talk to the bishop.” I felt like adding, “And I really don’t want to talk to you.” What in the world could he want to talk to me about?