The First Lady (6 page)

“He said himself that he just loves that peach cobbler of yours,” Daddy said, nodding toward the oven.

“Oh, yes, the cobbler. Thanks for reminding me,” I said as I hurried over to set the timer.

“Timer? Your mama never cooked with no timer. She could wake up out of a deep sleep and know that it was time to take the food out of the oven.” He shooed with his hand. “But anyway, why wouldn’t the bishop want to have dinner with you, Savannah?”

I shrugged. I mean, certainly I could think of a few reasons, but if I dare got started, the list would certainly take us into Monday morning’s breakfast. Of course, there was my age to consider. Being thirty-five years old didn’t make me a spring chicken, but with the bishop being ten years my senior, it still pushed me into the “younger woman” stereotype that most men try to avoid after a divorce or the death of their spouse. Oh, that would definitely give the church gossipers something to talk about. Some of the other folks in the choir already commented about all the solos I did, solos of which I felt I was most deserving. I might not be able to reach five octaves like that Mariah Carey, but I knew that God had indeed anointed me with the vocals to minister His word. But just imagine if the bishop were to show me any special kind of attention. Oooh, them heifers would sure enough have something to say then.

And there was the fact that I was not nearly as outgoing and aggressive as some of those other women at the church. Of course, the bishop appeared to be oblivious to the fact that ever since the first lady passed away, the dresses had been getting shorter and the slits in the skirts had been getting higher. I’ve always been a quiet girl, though, and I didn’t plan on changing to get no man, either. But then again, we weren’t talking about just any man; we were talking about the bishop.

“I can’t think of a reason why the bishop wouldn’t want to have dinner with you, either,” Daddy said with conviction. “Savannah, sweetheart.” Daddy walked over to me and took my hands. “Don’t doubt who you are. You are worthy. Look what all you’ve been through. The Bible says the suffering can’t be compared to the glory. Well, now it’s time for you to partake in the glory. You deserve this.”

I couldn’t believe this was actually my father holding my hands and speaking to me with such heartfelt sincerity. I had almost forgotten just how critical of me he could be. But it didn’t take long for him to remind me.

“I mean, sure, every now and then you hit a bad note during your solos, and you could stand to change that hairdo of yours every once in a while, but overall, you’re a good girl, Savannah. A good woman. And you’re gonna make a good wife someday, too, with a little hard work. I mean, ya gotta start doing more with yourself. You know what I mean. A woman’s gotta use her body to get what she wants sometimes.” He slugged me on the shoulder as if I were one of his pals.

“Yeah, well"—I sighed—"you know the Lord gives us a spirit of discernment, and something just tells me that—” Before I could finish my sentence, the doorbell rang.

“It’s him!” Daddy said, sounding more excited than I felt that the bishop was coming for dinner. Come to think of it, he probably
was
more excited, because
nervous
more accurately described the emotion I was overcome by. “You go on to your room and get dressed. I’ll keep the bishop company.”

I looked down at the outfit I had picked out for dinner with the bishop. Before I could tell Daddy that I was, in fact, already dressed, he raced out of the kitchen, straightening his tie. I quickly followed him out of the kitchen and headed to the back bedroom while he answered the door.

The back bedroom used to be the bedroom my mother and father had shared during their forty-two years of marriage. But once the female cancer ate Mama to her grave, Daddy couldn’t bear the memories that bedroom held, so he moved into the bedroom that I had grown up in. I didn’t mind having the bigger bedroom at all. And staring at that flowered wallpaper Mama had fallen in love with at Kmart reminded me of her every day—the only good memory I had in my life.

Once I got to my room, I immediately kicked off my house shoes and replaced them with my black pumps to match my black knee-length skirt. Perhaps I shouldn’t wear a black skirt, or a white blouse, for that matter. Seeing as how these were the required wardrobe colors that we wore in the church choir, it almost made it seem like I hadn’t bothered to change clothes after services. I did change, though. This white blouse had ruffles along the neckline and down the front, and the skirt I wore to church earlier was longer, ankle-length. But I was certain the bishop wouldn’t notice. No one besides the hens paid such close attention to me.

After tightening the bun in my hair, Daddy’s words set in, and I wish I had also decided to change my hairstyle too. Daddy was right; I always wore my hair in its same old bun. Nobody knew that I had hair dang near down to my butt.

“What’s taking you so long?” my eager father, sticking his head in my door, asked. “Come barefoot and naked if you got to … dang! You don’t keep a man waiting this long.” Daddy signaled with his hand for me to follow him out. He then led the way to the living room where the bishop sat waiting on the couch.

“Here she is, Bishop,” Daddy said, introducing me like I was Miss America. He then plucked and brushed a couple of pieces of lint off my shoulder.

“Sister Savannah,” the bishop said, rising off the couch and extending his hands to me.

After a nudge from Daddy, I walked over and placed my hands in the bishop’s. “Good to see you again today, Bishop,” I said as we shook hands and then released. I turned and walked back toward Daddy, who had a very displeased look on his face. If he could have, he would have pushed me a little harder, right into the bishop’s arms.

“It certainly smells good,” the bishop said with a smile. Funny thing was, I had never noticed before just how nice a smile the bishop had.

“Savannah’s been slaving all afternoon over this meal, Bishop,” Daddy bragged. “She wanted to make sure everything was just right for you. And I took the liberty of tasting it. Girl cooks better than her mama, and you know how well Sister Doreen could cook.”

I stood there staring at Daddy for a moment, ready to perform the Heimlich maneuver on him, just in case he started to choke on that lie he just told. Not five minutes ago he was telling me how inferior my cooking was, and now he was raving as if I were the black Julia Child. I figured I had to get Daddy away from the spot he was standing in before the lightning struck, so I suggested we go sit down for dinner.

“Dinner’s all ready, so why don’t we go eat?” I said, bound and determined to stuff something into Daddy’s mouth before he could say another word.

Daddy asked the bishop to bless the food, but Bishop Wilson insisted that the man of the house have the honor as the head of the table. During dinner, I could barely get a word in edgewise. Seems as though Daddy was set on doing all the talking.

“So, Bishop,” Daddy asked, “what do you think about Savannah’s outfit? She picked it out just for this evening.”

“Nice,” the bishop managed to say before placing one of my homemade dumplings in his mouth. If it were up to my daddy, he wouldn’t have even managed to get that bite down. “But you didn’t have to do that, Sister Savannah. The skirt you had on earlier today would have been just fine.”

He noticed?
I took a bite of chicken. It wasn’t until after dessert that I could squeeze in a word or two.

“Did you enjoy that cobbler?” I asked the bishop.

“Oh, did I,” the bishop said after taking his last forkful and pushing the saucer away. “I swear you make the best peach cobbler in the State of New York.”

“She used measuring cups and all this time, Bishop.” Daddy winked at me. “She wanted to make sure it was just perfect for you.”

“Daddy!” I silently mouthed.

“Well, then, measuring cups must be the secret to why your cobbler always tastes just perfect,” the bishop complimented me.

“Thank you, Bishop.” I blushed. I didn’t mean to blush. I didn’t want to blush. I just did.

I had been eyeball-to-eyeball with the bishop during Bible study, but he had never made me blush before. Maybe it was because I had never noticed just how creamy his chocolate skin was or how becoming his salt-and-pepper beard was. I hadn’t noticed a lot of things, so maybe I hadn’t noticed the bishop noticing me.

No, how silly is that?
I thought, and quickly disposed of the idea.

“Bishop, can I ask a favor of you?” Daddy said, then continued without giving him enough time to respond. “I just put some money down for Savannah to go to that revival next week in the Poconos. I was going to go as well, but when I remembered that that’s the weekend of my wedding anniversary, I didn’t think I’d be up to it. Not saying that I’m allowing the spirit of grief to take over me, but it’s just that … you know.”

“Oh, I understand, Deacon,” Bishop said, putting his hand on his shoulder.

“Since I can’t go,” Daddy continued, “I was wondering if you could keep an eye on Savannah for me.”

“I don’t see why not,” the bishop said. “And if I can’t, God watches over all of His children. But I’ll make sure I say a special prayer that He watches over this one.”

The bishop looked over at me and smiled. I know that I usually only see the bishop when he is in serious mode at the pulpit, but I swear I had never seen him smile so many times in my life. Not only had he looked over and smiled at me, but even though it was at Daddy’s request, he was going to say a prayer for me as well. Not just any prayer, like he had probably done for many people, but mine was going to be special. Maybe that was the bishop’s way of telling me that I was special.

Suddenly, an uneasy feeling came over me. Daddy used to say I was special once upon a time too. But he had a funny way of showing it.

“Well, it’s getting late, and I promised Sister Alberta that I’d stop by this evening and have a talk with that son of hers,” the bishop said, rising from the dining room table. “You know the youth today.”

“Don’t I?” Daddy said as he stood up along with the bishop. “Savannah, why don’t you go on and walk the bishop to the door while I clear the table?”

“What?” I said with a puzzled look on my face, as if I had spotted an alien. Daddy would rather cut off both his hands than have to lift a dish to clear the table. He always said that was a woman’s duty. This had to be a test. I wasn’t about to let him clear that table so I could hear him rant and rave later about how he had to do a woman’s job because I wasn’t woman enough to do it. No way!

“Oh, no, Daddy,” I insisted. “You go on and relax. I’ll clear the table after I see the bishop out.”

“Great idea,” Daddy said, winking at me as he retired to his bedroom.

Whew! I had passed the test.

Seeing the bishop out was uneventful, according to what Daddy probably had in mind for us. He thanked me for a wonderful evening, and I sent him on his way with something to remember me by—a slice of peach cobbler to go.

As I was clearing off the dinner table, the doorbell rang.

“I’ll get it,” I called out to Daddy, who I knew wouldn’t get up to answer the door anyway.

“You Savannah?” a young man asked when I opened the door.

“Who wants to know?” I replied.

“Are you Savannah Dickens?” he said more sternly.

“Well, yes, but—”

“Here,” he said, handing me a lavender envelope addressed to me. “This is for you.”

After the young man walked away, I closed the door and walked over to the couch, puzzled about the letter he had just given me. I slowly sat down and eyeballed the envelope before opening it. I pulled out a handwritten letter.

What is this? I wondered. And who in the world could it be from?

A
LISON AND THE
F
IRST
L
ADY

I stepped out of my car and opened the back door, picking up the vase that held the lavender-colored lilies I’d placed on the floor behind my seat. Stepping onto the grass, I walked about thirty yards, until I was in front of the four-foot-wide, three-and-a-half-foot-tall headstone, where I placed the flowers, very pleased with myself. Charlene had loved fresh-cut flowers, and I had made it my business to see that she had some at least once a month since her death. I kneeled down and pulled up the few weeds that had sprouted since my last visit. Then I read the headstone inscription with tears in my eyes:

HERE LIES CHARLENE WILSON, WIFE, MOTHER, AND FIRST LADY OF FIRST JAMAICA MINISTRIES. EVEN IN DEATH HER PRESENCE WILL
ALWAYS BE FELT.
1962–2006.

I don’t think I’d ever read truer words. Charlene’s presence was going to be felt for a long, long, long time when we got finished.

I stared at the gravesite and could almost see my best friend in her favorite cream-colored church dress, leaning against her own headstone, waiting to hear the latest news about her husband and his pursuers. When she was alive, Charlene would never admit it, but she loved gossip as much as anyone. She knew every rumor, theory, and secret about anybody who attended First Jamaica Ministries. She just never spread any of it unless it benefited her, her family, or the church.