Second Sunday (27 page)

“And on that night, I stayed on my knees, as I prayed and I prayed and I prayed. While I cried and I cried and I cried. The
Lord heard my prayer. He heard my cry. And He sent me you. He sent me a love that only God can give . . .”

The melody was so slow and bluesy and the song so sweet and tender that even Sister Hershey Jones started to cry when the
Holy Rollers lit into the chorus: “
I prayed and I cried. I cried and I prayed. I prayed and I cried and I cried and I prayed for a love that only God can give.
”

Mr. Louis Loomis wiped at his eyes with a handkerchief and whispered, “You alright, Mozelle?”

She nodded, barely managing to hold back the tears that were threatening to spill down her cheeks and ruin the makeup that
Precious had spent so much time applying to perfection.

As the song was ending, Rev. Wilson came in and showed the groom and his son to their places. Mr. Joseaphus Cantrell was
clean,
from his short silver Afro and meticulously groomed sideburns to the white boutonniere, sprayed with a touch of silver, that
graced his formal, conservatively cut black tuxedo. With it he wore a white, raw silk shirt, with black studs on it, and a
black silk tie and cummerbund shot through with very thin silver stripes. On his feet were soft patent-leather, slip-on shoes
with silk bows.

At the sight of the groom and his son, Charlie, who was a forty-six-year-old version of his father, a lot of women, young
and old, started using those church fans. Nettie and Viola nudged each other, as if to say, “Umph, umph, umph.” Sylvia whispered,
“Girl, Mr. Joseaphus Cantrell and Charlie standing up there making Richard Roundtree and Fred Williamson look kind of plain.
And you know that is a
hard
thing for them to do.”

They all laughed and slapped palms. What Sylvia said was true. Because if Richard Roundtree and Fred Williamson strutted up
in church today, nobody would know they were there, for staring at the groom and his best man so hard. This was going to be
a good wedding.

Nettie and Viola looked around the church to find Katie Mae. She was up in the balcony with her husband Cleavon and his nephew
Latham, who was making it a point to sit as far away from his soon-to-be ex-wife, Rosie, as possible. Nettie felt kind of
sorry for Katie Mae, who was looking like she would rather be anywhere but where she was. Lately, every time Cleavon found
out that Katie Mae had been hanging out with her friends or talking to them on the telephone, he picked a fight with her,
then stayed out all night or slept on the couch—anything to get her back under his control.

About the only woman in church who wasn’t drooling over Joseaphus and Charlie Cantrell was Sheba Cochran, who had eyes only
for George Wilson. And the harder she looked, the more mad at him she got for so adamantly denying what she just knew were
his feelings for her.

“Why does that man have to look so doggone good today?” Sheba thought, wanting to smack George for being
too
fine in his royal blue clerical robe, fashioned out of the finest Ghanaian fabric, with an orange, red, and blue Kente stole
around his neck.

Five of Miss Mozelle’s six children were sitting in front pews with their spouses and her grandchildren. With the exception
of the oldest brother, Oscar Lee Jr., they were overjoyed that their mother had finally found love and happiness. They loved
their daddy, but they knew what he was like. When Mozelle had first brought up the subject of marriage to Mr. Joseaphus Cantrell,
those five said, “Go for it, Mama.”

Oscar Lee Jr., on the other hand, had put on a performance just like his daddy would have done back in the day. He even looked
just like Oscar Lee Sr. And he showed out right in his mama’s house, carrying on about her being “totally disrespectful” and
“desecrating” his father’s memory. He insisted she was acting rash and foolish, hopping up and marrying this stranger, when,
as he said, “Daddy ain’t even cold in his grave.”

But what Oscar Lee Jr. had not bargained for was that his mother had over forty years of experience dealing with a fool. She
just kept right on cooking during his tirade and then, when she sensed that Oscar Lee Jr. had used up all his energy and words,
she took him on.

“Oscar Lee Jr., you ought to be ashamed of yourself,” she told him. “Your daddy gave his blessing for this marriage, and it
will happen whether you like it or not. Lord knows I want you there—you, my firstborn, the first baby I ever held in my arms.
But if you want to be a fool, then be one. As for me, I am getting married and that’s that. I have Oscar Sr.’s blessing on
this, and that overrides any objection coming from you.”

Oscar Lee Jr. was speechless. But just like his daddy, Oscar Lee Jr. hated losing a fight, and especially to a woman. He snatched
his jacket off the back of his chair and started stomping out of the kitchen. But his mother’s voice sliced right through
him, stopping him dead in his tracks.

“You know, your daddy spent his whole life making everybody miserable. But in the last days of his life, he worked hard to
set his wrongs right. I’ve never seen anybody make amends like your daddy did. So, I know in my heart that he would be disappointed
and disgusted with you right now,
Oscar Lee Thomas, Jr.
He didn’t set wrong right just for me. He did it for you, too. He did it so you wouldn’t have to live the way he did—always
needing to get himself right with God.

“Now, son, you can leave my house. And don’t you come back until you have an apology on your lips, and you got sense enough
to show the proper respect to me. ’Cause the next time you walk up in
my house
cuttin’ the fool, you gone need the ambulance people to get you out.”

Louise took her place at the front of the altar to await the entrance of the bride. She could see Bertha positioned at the
back of the church, glowing and so pretty in a pale blue chiffon A-line “hostess” gown that flowed gracefully from her shoulders.
Beside her stood Melvin Jr., watching Bertha with the special pride and love of a man who is crazy about the woman carrying
his baby. Louise would be happy and relieved when those two finally got married—people that much in love
needed
to be married. Plus, she could tell, just by Bertha’s cravings and how that baby was sitting, the baby was a boy—Melvin Vicks,
III.

On the other side of Melvin Jr. stood Phoebe, her cautious tomboy grandbaby, statuesque in a short pale blue chiffon shift
that hugged all her curves and emphasized her long legs. Her beautiful, thick hair, swept off her face with paIe blue jeweled
hairpins, hung soft and heavy down her back. Louise watched as Phoebe fussed with her corsage a moment before Jackson Williams
rushed over to help her with it. If her old-lady eyes weren’t playing tricks on her, Louise would have sworn that Jackson
stroked Phoebe’s cheek for a second after fixing her flowers.

“Umph, umph, umph,” Louise thought. “All this time I been thinking Miss Phoebe Josephine Cates been all by her little lonesome,
and Miss Lady got that ole long sip of Pepsi-Cola being all attentive to her self.”

The organist struck up the first chords of the traditional bridal march. Phoebe and Bertha opened the church doors and rolled
a white paper runner down the aisle, sprinkling it with pale pink rose petals. Then Mozelle appeared at the door, arm-in-arm
with Mr. Louis Loomis, looking like an angel in her silver lace dress, holding a large spray of pale pink and ivory roses.

“Girl, this show ’nough your day,” Mr. Louis Loomis whispered. “You been waiting all your life for it, haven’t you?”

Mozelle could only nod, and seeing tears gathering in her eyes, Mr. Louis Loomis handed her his handkerchief. “I
thought
something was missing,” he said. “I knew you had something old, something new, and a blue garter. ’Cause you ladies love
those blue garters. But I wondered if you had something borrowed, and now you do.”

Mozelle took the handkerchief gratefully. Then they started moving slowly down the aisle to a soulful version of the wedding
march, rendered on organ and piano, drums, and lead and bass guitars.

“You know, black folks can really work over white folks’ songs, can’t they?” Mr. Loomis murmured.

Mozelle chuckled, saying, “Louis Loomis, you a mess.”

When they reached the altar, Rev. Wilson greeted them, beaming, feeling so blessed at conducting this wedding and marveling
at how much the Lord loved folks in love. He took Mozelle’s pretty little hand and placed it in the strong outstretched one
of Joseaphus Cantrell, who was glowing with joy.

Mozelle smiled into the eyes of the man who was about to become her husband. Then she bowed her head for a second in memory
of Oscar Lee. She felt thankful that Queenie Tyler had blessed him with true love before he died. It was a miracle how God
had worked all that out, despite how Queenie and Oscar came together. Through the grace of God, Oscar got the kind of love
he had wanted all his life, and so did Mozelle, when the Lord gave her Joseaphus.

And the power of the Father’s love was so supreme that it had inspired Mozelle to insist that Queenie, who had recently joined
the church, sit in the family pew alongside her children. Mozelle was glad that God had opened her heart in forgiveness, for
the love Queenie showered on her and her children was so sweet and sincere that it was a blessing in itself. Mozelle could
understand why Oscar loved Queenie Tyler so much. Even with those gruff street ways, the girl was one of the kindest and most
generous people Mozelle had ever met.

Queenie caught her gaze and winked over the head of the grandbaby she was holding in her lap. Then she turned and smiled at
her best friend, mean old Warlene, who was huddled up under Old Daddy like she was scared he would slip away from her. As
usual, Old Daddy was sharp as a tack in a lime green silk leisure suit with a matching lime green silk derby, a pale turquoise
silk shirt with a big collar, turquoise gators, and a sterling silver cane. Since getting saved, Queenie had been desperately
wanting her friend to share in the joy she got from the Lord, and she didn’t want Old Daddy to reach death’s door before rededicating
his life to Christ. But Queenie also knew that Warlene had something that could be helpful to her new church, should Cleavon
Johnson try once more to force Rev. Earl Hamilton into that pulpit. And if Warlene got saved, it was a certainty that she
would share what she had with the church.

Queenie thought it best to entice Warlene and Old Daddy to church with an invitation to the wedding and reception. Those two
liked to party, and she knew that was about the only way they would come to church. When Miss Mozelle called Warlene, at Queenie’s
request, to personally invite her to the wedding, both Warlene and Old Daddy replied that they were tickled pink and couldn’t
wait to come.

With a light brush of his fingers on her bare wrist, Joseaphus drew Mozelle’s attention away from Queenie and Warlene. His
eyes were loving and tender, but in them she saw a passion so intense, it made her have a hot flash. Her reaction brought
a rumble of pleasure from her groom that set Mozelle’s heart to racing. She had to clutch her bouquet of roses to steady herself
as Rev. Wilson began their wedding.

The Soul Train line was long—twenty-five people on each side, from little kids standing across from their mamas and daddies,
to teens who couldn’t wait to “get down” the way they saw the
Soul Train
dancers do it on television, to Rev. Wilson, Sheba Cochran, Bertha waddling across from Melvin Jr., Bert and Nettie, Phoebe
and Jackson Williams, MamaLouise and Mr. Louis Loomis, Warlene and Old Daddy, and, of course, the bride and groom.

George was happy to be standing across from Sheba in the line. It had taken quite a bit of maneuvering to get this spot. And
everything would be perfect if Sheba would stop glaring in his direction like she was ready to do him some damage.

The music changed from the O’Jays’ “Love Train” to James Brown’s “We Gone Have a Funky Good Time.” George, who
loved
James Brown, jumped out in the center of the line before his turn, threw a hump in his back, and started Camel Walking to
the beat and the claps of the other folks in the line.

The teens laughed, and one of the boys shouted out, “Pastor, you look like Shaft, one baaaaad—”

“Hush yo’ mouf,” his friend chimed in. “You ain’t talkin’ ’bout Shaft.”

“And,” the second teen’s mother said from her spot farther down the line, “yo’ li’l narrow, mannish behind better hush
yo’
mouf, talking grown enough to get it washed out with some soap!” The teen bent his head down in embarrassment, as his friends
snickered and poked at each other, glad that it wasn’t one of them.

George stepped up the pace of his movements and then lunged to yank Sheba from the line and into the center with him. But
she pulled back, saying, “I’ll wait this one out and let you carry the show yourself, Reverend.” Again George, who had been
trying his best to get back in Sheba’s good graces, grabbed her hand, and this time he wouldn’t let go. “You scared to dance
in this line,” he challenged, “’cause you know you can’t do nothing with me.”

Sheba couldn’t believe that boy. He had the nerve of a brass monkey drinking Brass Monkey, talking that trash about how
she
couldn’t handle
him.
She sucked on her teeth and started moving to the music, acting like he wasn’t even standing there.

George was not about to let Sheba play him off like that. He got right in front of her and started doing a series of dance
steps, spinning around, while his congregation egged him on.

“Pastor, you know you ought to quit.”

“Gone ’head with your superbad self.”

“Sheba, girl, you better work it a little harder, ’cause that boy gettin’ ready to take it to the
bridge.
”

And when George got to dancing harder after that last comment, somebody said, “You know I’m gone pray for you, Pastor. ’Cause
you gone need some prayer and laying on of hands, when you wake up all stiff and sore in the morning.”