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Authors: Pat G'Orge-Walker

BOOK: No Ordinary Noel
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Chapter 2
Fall 2010
 
A
few days after the Halloween madness crept off the radar, there was a new holiday buzz all over Pelzer. Like most of the country, Pelzer townsfolk were broke. They faced turkey-free dinners and severe Christmas giving challenges.
However, from the schoolyard to the junkyard, with the jailhouse and churches in between, they still held hope for the upcoming holiday.
They snatched down their pumpkin front door decorations and got ready for the Thanksgiving and Christmas madness. Some folk were brazen and heathen enough to have a Tom Turkey figure in a manger with a huge Santa on the front porch. The Santa even had a sack of toys thrown over his back, and a Bible in his hand.
Pelzer folk never allowed reality to derail their delusions, and the Mothers Board determined the tradition should continue. When it came time for the quarterly meeting, the first Saturday in November, craziness and chaos tore down the
WELCOME
sign and moved in.
Extraordinary times called for extreme measures, and no one more extreme than the Mothers Board fit the bill. It was time for the bickering fundraising heads of the board to rumble. They shared the war-mongering crown: cantankerous Mother Sasha Pray Onn and incontinence-plagued Mother Bea Blister. With Thanksgiving and Christmas coming soon, it was time to put into play one of the fundraising schemes they'd hatched.
Their plots seldom worked, but like most old hens, they just kept on hatching them.
Early on, Bea and Sasha had asked for volunteers to aid in their latest sure-to-be fiasco, but only three members signed up. Those three forced labor workers, all either over or in their sixties, were Elder Bartholomew “Batty” Brick, Brother Leon Casanova, and Trustee Freddie Noel. They came aboard because Sasha and Bea had threatened to spread untruths, beat the crap out of them, or stuff laxative-laced meals down their throats.
Elder Brick had already served time and didn't need the rumors. Brother Casanova was scared of Bea's violent nature and Sasha's entire Hellraiser family. And malnourished-looking Trustee Noel just needed a hot home-cooked meal from anywhere with or without a laxative.
The weather held out the Saturday morning of the meeting. There was just enough of a chill in the air to chill out the old folk. The five seniors arrived at Crossing Over Sanctuary church with a combined five hundred years of senility, irregularity, and illusions of holiness.
The head of the Finance Committee, Elder Bartholomew “Batty” Brick entered first. Fellow committee members Brother Leon Casanova and Trustee Freddie Noel entered next. The men then escorted Mothers Sasha and Bea into the fellowship hall. They went to the rear of the hall and sat at one of the large tables.
The five already knew why they were there. Months ago, Bea and Sasha, referred to as BS, had suggested to Reverend Tom holding a Seniors Prom as a fundraiser. More recently, when Elder Brick slipped up and told Sasha that the church's intake had slipped dramatically, she'd suggested they come up with more ideas beyond just selling tickets to the prom.
“Okay,” Sasha announced. “Batty, you lead us in a word or two of prayer so we can get started.”
Elder Batty Brick jumped up quicker than his arthritis normally allowed. The overweight, tall, olive-complexioned man with snow-white hair winced. He dropped his head, clasped his hands, and blurted as if he were preaching, “You know our hearts, Lord.” He let one hand sweep over their heads. “We come asking that You take our few fishes and stale crusty bread ideas and help us make some money with them.”
All raised their eyes and palms toward the ceiling, and added, “Amen.”
“We don't hafta read the minutes. We can just move on.” The suggestion came from Mother Bea Blister.
Bea had been the Vice President of the Mothers Board for more years than she could remember. She'd also been Sasha's rival for anything she figured Sasha wanted. In her late sixties, so she said, Bea was a statuesque woman. She had a severely arched back, an extra hundred pounds, was dark as a sun-ripened raisin, and just as wrinkled.
She made her wishes known on her way out the hall to the bathroom. She'd felt an urge to go since she'd left home. Since there were men at the meeting, and she wasn't too sure if she could depend on the Depend she'd worn, it was as good a time as any to take care of business. The last thing she wanted was to be embarrassed, and definitely not with blabbermouth Sasha present.
By the time Bea returned, she found the other four seated just as she'd left them. “What did I miss?”
“When did you leave?” Sasha asked. She'd never tell Bea that she'd held up the meeting until she returned. There was no fun in that.
That set the tone for the rest of the meeting.
“I think we should sell T-shirts,” Sasha suggested. “We'll have ones printed for the men,
GOT AN XTRA BLUE PILL
? For the women,
ME & MY BREASTS R SOUTHERN GALS
.”
Sasha's suggestion caught Brother Leon's attention. Up till then, he'd been dozing. He leaned forward, his brow furrowed. His seventy-year-old cinnamon-colored cheeks appeared full as if he'd stowed away a few nuts instead of sitting among them. “Ahem,” he said as he pulled on his gray handlebar moustache to give his coming words more weight.
“As I see it”—he looked around to make sure all eyes were upon him—“this hall holds about five hundred people comfortably. Since we're having a throwback to the fifties, sixties, and seventies dress theme for the prom, I'm sure most won't need to do anything but look in their closets and grab something to wear. Afros, conks, platform shoes, we all got some old clothes somewhere.”
“Bea can wear what she wore last Sunday.” Sasha chuckled. Her tiny parentheses-shaped legs spread and, of course, she'd forgotten her underwear again.
“And Sasha can just wear what she's wearing now,” Bea shot back, “except she can add drawers.”
One moment Sasha's knees were open and the next the springs to Sasha's knees shut hard enough to crack a bone. She grabbed her cane and was about go Darth Vader on Bea.
Brother Casanova jumped between them, “Ladies, please. Don't make me hafta use my Taser!” He'd heard that line on television and was glad it worked. He shook his head and sighed at their pettiness as they retreated. “Anyway, we're supposed to come up with ways to make money without going over the five-hundred dollar budget. Won't it cost most of that to get the shirts printed?”
Sasha didn't like her idea challenged, and she could almost feel her tight gray bun tighten. It threatened to cut off the oxygen to her brain, but she remained cool. “Of course, I already thought about that,” she lied. “Bea is gonna handwrite every word on every T-shirt.”
“What the ham and cheese!” Bea's spine almost straightened as she shot forward, her fists balled to strike. “Oh, forget a Ta—”
Sasha quickly cut her off when she added sweetly, “Bea has such lovely penmanship. Why should we pay for something that will have less quality?”
Bea's fist stopped in mid-air. She hadn't gone to college, but when Sasha put it that way, how could she refuse? “I do have good penmanship,” Bea said with as much sincerity as an old con artist could muster. “How many T-shirts would we need?”
Elder Batty started counting on his fingers and when he added both knees to the count, he said, “Bea, I think we've sold about one hundred and fifty tickets with about two hundred more promised.”
From the end of the table, someone spoke up and offered a semblance of common sense. “We do remember the Seniors Prom is the Saturday after Thanksgiving, don't we? That's less than a month away. It won't leave us much time.”
Everyone turned to face Trustee Freddie Noel. Until that moment, they'd not heard a peep from the tall, lemon yellow, skinny man with squinty brown eyes, and a sharp nose that looked like a carrot stick. Not only was he very tall, but extremely unattractive. In his mid-sixties, he was so thin, he'd almost had to pin his pants to his skin to keep them up.
“It'll be enough time if we're not distracted,” Elder Batty Brick replied. “So you can pencil that in your notes as a done deal.”
The trustee shuddered a bit. He knew that Elder Batty Brick had only mentioned the word pencil because behind his back folks called him “Number two,” saying he resembled a number two pencil with a chewed eraser.
“That reminds me,” Brother Casanova added, as he turned to Trustee Noel, “we haven't assigned a job to you for that night.”
“Let him take the coats,” Bea snapped.
Bea always dismissed Trustee Noel because he didn't fit what she looked for in a man, a congregation member, or a potential helpmate. He was too thin, too poor, and she didn't think he could stand up to the job of giving her what she'd need. “Unless you're bringing a date or plan on having any fun, I don't think you'd mind taking the coats, would you?”
Before the trustee could respond Sasha added fuel to the fire, “He's celibate. Everyone knows he ain't never been married. I've never seen him dance and if he could, I'm certain he would. He ain't trying to have fun.”
“Well, I'm certain he'll celebrate when he's no longer a celibate.” Somehow Elder Batty Brick thought he'd helped the reclusive trustee, especially when he added, “I'm sure he's just waiting on a woman who'd have him.”
As usual, the trustee's manhood always fed the gossip fire and if he wasn't weird enough for their chatter, he had a bad habit. The trustee had a sprig of silver hair resembling a half moon that peeked out from the crown of his head. Whenever he was nervous, which was most of the time, he twirled that sprig. When they finished berating him, the top of his head looked like silver twigs.
They decided that Elder Batty Brick would collect the monies despite having once served time for embezzlement. Brother Casanova would DJ, even though he'd warned them about his hearing loss in one ear. He'd also supervise the hall decorations. Sasha would oversee the food and a possible senior date auction. Bea would print by hand all the T-shirts and secure the adult entertainment.
The way they figured, even though Reverend Tom authorized only five hundred dollars for the entire affair, they'd make it work and have money to spare. Still delusional, they ended in prayer.
Chapter 3
S
unday, the day after the Seniors Prom committee met, nothing much changed but the weather.
The howling winter winds came earlier than expected, screaming their blizzard warnings. Torrential rains pounded the ground, leaving muddy puddles in its wake. Of course, weather was always unpredictable as were life's ups and downs. That was expected. What wasn't, however, were the storms of life that could stop everything in its tracks.
That morning a tempest brewed inside the mind of Crossing Over Sanctuary's Reverend Leotis Tom and there was no shelter other than prayer. Inside his modest town house bedroom, he lay awake with sadness in his eyes. He looked toward the ceiling and prayed. “Father God, my faith looks up to Thee. I know You will not abandon Your son . . .”
It was the same prayer he'd repeated for the past few days, seemingly more to convince himself than anything else. So that Sunday morning, rather than just lay there, the reverend slid from under the heavy dark comforter wrapped about his body like a cocoon. Looking into the bedroom mirror, he faced two startling facts that had caused him to lay awake and pray throughout much of the night before. One was that a terrible thunderstorm threatened to arrive soon and drench Pelzer and its surrounding areas. The other was when later that morning he announced that the church had a severe financial crisis, the congregation just might storm him, too. With Thanksgiving and Christmas coming in a few weeks, the announcement could not come at a worse time.
Reverend Tom turned his face to a nearby wall. “Lord, did I misunderstand? If I did, then why did You send Sister Betty as a witness to the vision three years ago?”
He had many questions for God. His community development vision project was in jeopardy. And where was his spiritual prayer warrior, Sister Betty?
Those were the same questions he'd asked God ever since he received unwelcome news from the Piece of Savings Bank a few weeks ago. The bank had called in its option to receive the balance of the monies owed for the church's Promised Land development deal for the vacant ten acres across the highway from Crossing Over Sanctuary. If the church didn't pay then it was legally liable to forfeit whatever monies had already been invested. All improvements made on the property would also be lost.
It took all the strength he had but eventually the reverend showered and dressed for that morning's service. He opted for an off-the-rack suit rather than one tailor-made. He didn't eat, not because he was fasting, but because he had no appetite for food, or for what he had to do.
In all the years he'd preached and shared God's prophetic visions, neither his faith nor his reputation had ever taken such a hit. He'd not allowed it, especially in the wake of so many huge church scandals. He could only wonder where God's favor was now that he needed it so badly.
Bad weather and howling winds matched the reverend's mood for that Sunday's morning service. The wind and violent rain pellets shook the church's stained glass panes like a baby's rattle and mocked the reverend's heartfelt attempt at worship and praise.
He preached what he hoped was a powerful sermon from his prepared text, “Be Ye Anxious for Nothing.” He whipped the congregation into worship frenzy and prayed that the Holy Ghost would prepare them for the bad news. The congregation amened, praised, and shouted. Finally, when he thought the spiritual atmosphere was ready, he spread his arms wide and indicated the people should sit. He glanced over toward the Board of Trustees and the Finance Committee because several already knew what was about to happen. The men on the board nodded slightly, urging him to step into the furnace as Daniel had.
Flames of malcontent were about to singe the faith of the Reverend Leotis Tom and the church to its core.
He lifted a square collection box from among several props he'd earlier arranged on the pulpit lectern. Reverend Tom held the box in the air and asked, “Who among you still believe God cannot be confined to a small box, no matter how hard we've always tried to keep Him there?”
Like popcorn, hands shot up, the choir broke out singing, “Our God is An Awesome God,” and hallelujahs rang out in response.
He'd gotten the reaction he wanted. With a big grin and a false sense of returning peace, he started to walk peacock-proud, strutting back and forth across the front of the altar. “That's what I'm talking about,” he said, as he raised an arm indicating the congregation should shut off their powerful affirmations.
“Well, for those whose faith wavers I guess I'm about to say what they'd call bad news.”
No sooner had he let the words
bad news
leave his mouth than it became so quiet the reverend swore he heard a fly land on a cotton ball. Heads nodded in his direction, mostly from the Board of Trustees and the Finance Committee; an indication he should hurry up and continue before he lost his edge and their waning support.
Reverend Tom's smile stayed glued to his face as he continued to speak. “You know Satan can't just get up any time he wants and mess with the people of God. . . .”
Brother Leon Casanova, who'd slept through much of the service but didn't think anyone noticed, jumped up with his fists in the air. He twirled them as though he were in a boxing ring, warming up. “That's right, Satan. Mama said, ‘knock yo butt out!' ”
Reverend Tom and most of the congregation broke into laughter, seeming to forget the bad news was still to come.
“Amen, Brother Casanova.” Reverend Tom turned off his laughter and replaced it with his signature defiant smile that looked more like a sneer. “Now when the Devil wanted to torment Job he had to get permission from God. In fact, not only did God give the Devil permission but it was He that first made the suggestion . . .”
“Quit stalling, Reverend,” a husky, angry voice broke out from the back of the sanctuary. “We already know that Job went through a whole lotta hell. So now what the heck are you trying to tell us? What's this bad news?”
Whoever asked the question had kept their seat. It didn't matter because the reverend couldn't backtrack had he wanted to. That Job scriptural fact had the ears and the attention of the entire church. Even the usual chatterboxes seated on the we-come-every-so-often back pews shut their judgmental mouths as they stuffed their offering envelopes back into their pockets.
The half smile slid from the reverend's face and his shoulders seemed to droop as he slowly began the awful truth.
“Several weeks ago, the Finance Committee, Church Board, and I received notice from the Piece of Savings Bank. The bank is calling in the loan. It appears that Crossing Over Sanctuary can't cross over onto our Promised Land development deal as agreed. We're broke.”
Although it took a few minutes for the revelation to sink in, it was more than enough time for all hell to break loose. And at that very moment, Hell was making its way off the hot seat and out of the second pew. Its small yet shrill voice cracking the already confused atmosphere was determined to have its say.
Mother Sasha Pray Onn wasn't privy to the financial difficulty, yet heard the word
broke
and that got her all riled up. As small as she was, she became an unnatural force of nature all by itself, with rimless reading glasses that bounced upon her tiny button nose. With strength she didn't know she had, those parentheses-shaped legs sprang into action.
“Hallelujah and thank you Lord, you saved me when you did!” Mother Sasha Pray Onn, Satan's sometime right-hand gal and first cousin, screamed out.
She adjusted her latest set of dentures with a loud tongue click as she made her way off her seat and along the second row of red cushioned pews.
Never one to apologize or say, “Excuse me,” she used her ever-present walking cane to plow her way through the pew. She stopped at the end, snatched off a newly placed turkey paper figure, and tore the head off. Despite her proclamation of salvation a few seconds ago, she wasn't about to hide her agitation and that turkey was only an example. When Mother Pray Onn wasn't happy, wasn't nobody happy. She stood with her legs slightly parted, at least in her mind, a few feet away from the reverend. With one hand on her tiny hip, she began to reprimand him with what thus saith Sasha, the false prophet-profiteer.
“I needed to get a little closer to you, Reverend Tom,” she began. “I was sitting over there in the nosebleed section of the second pew”—she used her cane to indicate the exact row she meant—“in the first seat on the far end, befitting my position as President of the Mothers Board. So I can't always hear you correctly.”
That's how she started. But then she continued with, “You must've lost your doggone mind if you think I'm gonna let you get away with squandering my year's tithe of one hundred and forty dollars and twenty-six cents!
“I'm supposed to just shout on and give the Lord the glory anyhow? I'm supposed to dance a happy dance after you gambled and wasted my hard-earned social security money?”
Reverend Tom flinched as soon as the word
gamble
left the old woman's mouth. He hated gambling and had preached against it from the day of his installation, and he knew she knew it. Nevertheless, that was not the moment for correction.
“Well, Mother Pray Onn—”
That was about as far as the reverend got when the first sounds of murmuring reached the pulpit floor. He looked toward the altar's side pew but didn't get much support from the Church Board or the Finance Committee. They all turned and looked back at him as though he were brand new.
Mother Pray Onn and her posse of backsliders viciously tore the reverend and his vision apart. There wasn't a spirit left untarnished—holy or otherwise. He left the church wondering if God had ever called him to preach, or had he just shown up and volunteered. An hour after the church service ended he was lucky he still had Jesus on his side.
Later that afternoon, back in his home, the reverend pushed and rammed the iron poker into the hot coals as he stoked the fire in his fireplace. With every thrust, he cringed as he recalled what had gone down earlier.
The vision of the revolt caused him to snatch a bottle of blessed oil off the mantel and anoint his head with handfuls before he walked over and sank back onto his sofa. All he could do at that moment was reread the tattered pages of his Bible. He'd been foolish to rely on either the Church Board or the Financial Committee for support.
Reverend Tom felt he needed to read his Bible. It was his life's puzzle solver. Yet even after reading practically all one hundred and fifty Psalms, he still felt uneasy. Whom could he call when he couldn't get a prayer through? “Certainly not Ghostbusters,” he quipped.
Reverend Tom needed his prayer partner and adopted spiritual mother, Sister Betty. Two days ago, she'd left word that she'd gone to Belton, South Carolina, to “handle some personal business,” and he prayed she'd already returned.
He peeked out the side window to his garage. From there he could see the far side of Sister Betty's house. The lit front porch light told him that she'd not returned. He went back to his den, called her, and left a message that she should contact him no matter what time she got home.

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