Second Sunday (16 page)

But the next morning, all George had to do was follow the stale smell of the pig ear sandwich remains to the trash can, where
he discovered some wax paper with “Pompey’s Rib Joint #Two” stamped on it. After examining the paper, George called Mr. Pompey
Hawkins to ask if he had any idea who might have ordered a pig ear sandwich with lettuce and tomatoes.

“Lawd, Reverend,” Pompey Hawkins said, “the only one of my customers who mess up a pig ear sandwich with lettuce and tomato
is your church member, Cleavon Johnson. And he got that sandwich last night.”

George’s first inclination was to call Cleavon and jack him up. But after thinking and praying on the matter, he called Phoebe
Cates to take her up on her offer to serve as legal counsel for the church. Phoebe, who was itching for a fight with a member
of the Johnson clan, immediately set out to issue Cleavon a court order for the contents of the safe.

But her grandmother MamaLouise pooh-poohed that tactic, saying, “Baby, this situation calls for a Negro law maneuver and not
that fancy Perry Mason stuff. Phoebe, you have to get low-down and funky with Cleavon to get what you want from him. Because
that’s about all someone on his curbstone level understands.”

Phoebe took her grandmother’s advice to heart. She retrieved the pig ear sandwich wrapper from Rev. Wilson and stapled it
to a note: “If you don’t bring back whatever you took, I’m gone haul you off to court for breaking and entering, right after
I crack that safe upside your big fat head.”

When Cleavon discovered that greasy note tacked on his fancy and very expensive white front door, he had what Nettie called
a “hissy fit.” He snatched the note off the door and drove over to George’s office, walked in without knocking, and threw
the note, along with a brown envelope, right onto George’s lap.

As interim pastor, George had never had the combination to the safe, so he had no idea what was in it. But his gut told him
that if something was worth breaking into it to get, Cleavon would never return it without a fight. He opened the envelope
and sifted through the contents twice, unable to shake the feeling that something was missing. He looked up at Cleavon and
said, “Is this all of it?”

“And what if it isn’t, George? How would you ever know? And what could you do—get your babygirl lawyer to haul my butt to
court?”

“Well, I just might, Cleavon,” George said, never taking his eyes off of him.

“Is that right?” Cleavon said, thumbing his nose like he was getting ready for a fight.

“You the man,” George answered calmly, then steered Cleavon to the door, shutting it in his face. Sighing heavily, he said,
“I
really
need you, Lord,” and then dialed up Bert Green to get the name of a good locksmith.

George had his hands so full, between Cleavon and the anniversary, that it took him a while to get fully up to speed on the
needs of his congregation. Fortunately, there were other dutiful stewards of the Lord in the church who kept an eye on their
fellow members and stood ready to step in with prayer and help if necessary.

One of those praying stewards was MamaLouise. And MamaLouise was led to take her friend and sister in the Lord, Mozelle Thomas,
under her watch-care the day that Oscar, Mozelle’s husband, retired from his job as a janitor at the Federal Building.

On his last day of work, Oscar cleaned out his locker and then went home to do what he had always done over the last forty
years—pick on Mozelle. Sitting at the kitchen table with his hands folded, he watched her down on her hands and knees, cleaning
out the bottom cabinets he had complained that morning were too messy. Mozelle hadn’t expected him back so soon. It had barely
been three hours since she had sent him off with a hearty “congratulations” breakfast. But when Mozelle didn’t immediately
stop what she was doing to attend to him, Oscar scraped his chair noisily on the floor and said nastily, “I been sitting here
for six minutes now and you have yet to stop that nonsense.”

Mozelle ignored her husband for one more minute, to give herself time to rein in her temper. The last thing she wanted or
needed today was a fight with Oscar because she got angry and gave him “too much lip.” She stood up and turned around to face
him, bristling inside at the harsh expression she found.

“You hungry?” she managed to ask softly, hoping to soothe his irritation.

“What do you think?” he demanded, smacking his hand on the tabletop. “What do you think I been sitting here for? I could have
starved to death while you were down there digging in that cabinet. You have to be the stupidest woman I have ever laid eyes
on.” He shook his head and raised his hands up in complete frustration. “I don’t know why you don’t know how to take care
of me after all these years—”

“But, Oscar,” Mozelle protested, “you just—”

“Shut up, Mozelle, and just forget it. I’ll go and get myself something to eat with Christmas Jefferson.”

“But Oscar . . .”

He stormed out of the house, slamming the door as hard as he could, leaving her with tears streaming down her cheeks. Mozelle
had hoped that Oscar would be so happy about retiring from a job he hated that he would finally be able to celebrate life
and enjoy her company. But here he was acting like he had just been told he would have to work all of his natural-born days,
plus a couple hours more after he was dead.

As the weeks went by, not only did Oscar remain mean and sullen, he decided that the best way to spend his newfound spare
time was to run around St. Louis posing as a big-shot player with his friend Christmas Jefferson. But being a bona fide St.
Louis player required a lot more style and flash than what Oscar had. So the first thing Oscar did, with the encouragement
of Christmas, was buy a brand-new, burnt orange Cadillac with white leather interior, shiny whitewall tires, and silver belt
buckles running down the back of the trunk. Oscar even had a fancy eight-track tape recorder installed, along with top-of-the-line
speakers, plus a shiny fake antenna on one of the windows, so that everybody would think he had a TV in his car.

The car itself put anything ever owned by Shaft, the Mack, or Superfly to shame. But when coupled with that outstanding sound
system, it qualified as a genuine, superbad “diggin’ the scene with a gangsta lean” automobile. You could hear Bobby Blue
Bland moaning and snorting about two blocks before you even saw Oscar in his new car. And to make sure everyone got a good
look at him in that big smooth vehicle, he took to driving real slow, leaning down so low you could barely see the colored
toothpicks he sported to match his shirts.

At first Mozelle tried to ignore what behind Oscar’s back she called “his old-man shenanigans.” Even though he was making
a fool of himself, she felt that maybe he did deserve some time to be silly after all those years of hard work. So for a while
Mozelle acted as if nothing had changed, and she rode around with Oscar in that loud orange car, never so much as blinking
when folks honked and cussed them out because he was driving slow enough to block traffic.

Unfortunately, the burnt orange Cadillac was only a dark cloud heralding a breaking storm. Shortly after Oscar bought the
car, he decided that he needed a new wardrobe. His good clothes—expensive and exquisitely tailored suits—just didn’t look
right with his new car. He ordered Mozelle to pack up all of those “old-timey” clothes in the cedar chest. And the next day,
he and Christmas Jefferson went over to Londell’s Men’s Shop and picked out some pink, red, and lemon-lime polyester three-piece
suits and coordinating brightly printed silk shirts with big collars; a turquoise leisure suit; and two fur-trimmed Superfly
outfits, one in purple and one in powder blue.

Oscar inaugurated his new look on the Second Sunday in February, when everybody came to church to hear the Holy Rollers Choir.
He timed his entrance carefully, waiting until the pastor and the choir were positioned at the back of the church, with the
service about to begin. Poor Mozelle tried to hang back and ease into the church, but Oscar wasn’t having that. He signaled
for her to take her place slightly behind him. Then he ambled slowly down the center of the aisle, feet akimbo, cane in his
right hand, a toothpick as purple as his suit hanging out of the left side of his mouth and his matching suede hat, trimmed
with rabbit fur, tilted forward. The sanctuary was so quiet you could hear a pin before it dropped, when it was still tumbling
through the air.

“Oscar Lee,” Mozelle whispered nervously, her voice cutting through the silence, “our pastor needs for us to move so the service
can start.”

“Shut up,” he hissed through his teeth, and then proceeded slowly to his seat.

Rev. Wilson stood at the back of the church, trying to decide whether to see how far this fool would go or to order him to
sit down. “See how far this fool would go” won out, and George let the show roll. George was glad that he did, too, because
he would have kicked himself if he had stopped Mr. Oscar Thomas in his tracks and cut off the second half of this performance.

Oscar strutted down the aisle and stopped at the pew where MamaLouise and Mr. Louis Loomis were sitting. He nodded for Mozelle
to take her seat, while he stood straightening the wide lapels of his coat and correcting the angle of his hat. Then he pulled
a lime green silk handkerchief out of his breast pocket and, bending over, dusted off his shoes. Finally he balled up the
handkerchief and tossed it in Mozelle’s lap, gave an usher the “Black Power” sign, and sat down.

“About time,” Phoebe whispered to Bertha. “And check out those clothes.”

“Yeah, about only thing missing on Mr. Oscar’s outfit,” Bertha offered, “is a mouthful of gold ‘teefuses.’”

“I heard that,” Melvin Jr. said, laughing out loud and not caring who heard him. “You know something, y’all,” he said, staring
at Mr. Oscar, “I never noticed it before, but Mr. Oscar looks a whole lot like a ghetto version of Sammy Davis, Jr.”

With one exception, the whole balcony crew—Phoebe, Bertha, Melvin Jr., Jackson Williams, and Melvin’s sister, Rosie Johnson—started
cracking up. Latham Johnson, Rosie’s husband and Cleavon’s nephew, sat with his arms folded across his chest, mouth all tight,
wondering what was so funny about that old man in that tacky getup. He glanced over at his wife, still laughing with her brother,
and scowled, thinking, “She is so ghetto.”

George pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his face. All he really needed to do was wipe his eyes, but he didn’t want his
parishioners to figure out that he was laughing. He nodded at the organist and pianist to start playing, so tickled he could
barely say, “I was glad when they said unto me, let us go into the house of the Lord.”

MamaLouise could not believe that Oscar would walk up in church like that. He had cut the fool many a day, but this was a
stretch, even for him. She leaned across Mozelle and whispered, “Oscar Lee, you gone remember Whose house you in and rest
your hat?”

At first Oscar acted as if he didn’t hear Louise. But his head was hot, and he didn’t want to start perspiring, marring his
own cool composure with a sweaty new suit. So he “rested” the hat on his knee, giving Mozelle cause to slip out a relieved
sigh, and even to hope that Oscar had had his day and would behave during the rest of the service.

But that hope was short-lived. At collection time, Oscar hopped up, put his hat back on, grabbed his cane, and did an old-man
version of the pimp-daddy walk down the aisle to drop a wad of bills into the basket. On the way back to his seat, he kept
glancing to the left and right, hoping that the high rollers in the congregation would greet his new look with a few hand
slaps. But nobody played into that nonsense. And in fact, later on, when Oscar “copped” one cool pose too many at the dinner,
Katie Mae’s grandmother announced, “Oscar Lee, I’m gone pray your strength, ’cause you must be mighty sick to carry on like
you been doing all morning.”

That made Oscar so mad that he huffed and puffed up, high-stepped himself over to the table where Mozelle was eating peacefully,
and gave her a signal that it was time to go home. When she opened her mouth to protest, he whipped out another handkerchief—this
one in lavender silk—to mop invisible sweat off his face and neck before he said, “Mozelle, when we get home, I want you to
read Paul’s Scriptures about how a wife is supposed to act.”

Mozelle was about to defend herself, but when she saw Oscar bristling and turning as purple as his suit, she decided to avoid
creating a scene. Louise was so outraged that she started to scold Oscar, but Mr. Louis Loomis shook his head no. Whatever
she said would just be further provocation, which Oscar would probably take out on Mozelle.

Since no one at church had the sense enough to appreciate him or his new look, Oscar decided that he needed more sophisticated
company. So, the very next morning, he called Christmas Jefferson to accept his offer to join that happening social organization
for “senior and ultracool black men in St. Louis,” the Mellow Slick Cougars Club. The club had a serious reputation, because
a number of its elderly male members were known throughout the North Side as supersmooth ladies’ men. And for Oscar, who had
never been viewed as smooth or sexy, being invited to join this group of retired players was a dream come true.

As soon as Mozelle found out, she called Louise, hardly able to talk for crying so hard. “Girl, Oscar Lee done gone and lost
his mind, joining that old good-timing Christmas Jefferson’s Mellow Slick Cougars Club.”

“Now, Mozelle, you know that is some country St. Louis mess,” Louise said, just shaking her head at the phone. “The Mellow
Slick Cougars Club? I sure wish I could have seen the old fool who made that one up. I bet he stayed up all night until he
got just the right name with the right amount of chitlin flavor in it.”

“Louise,” Mozelle said, sniffling, but now with a chuckle in her voice, “you know your self ain’t right.”

“Well, if it smell like chitlins, then it is chitlins—or something worse. That club ain’t about nothing, plain and simple.
There’s nothing wrong with our menfolk having a place of their own. But this Cougar Club mess they done concocted don’t offer
nobody nothing but a bad excuse to do wrong.