Second Sunday (28 page)

George moved in closer to Sheba. “You ready to be turned every which-a-way but loose?” he demanded. “Or are you too chicken
for that?”

“Chicken?” Sheba snapped.

“Yeah,” George retorted. “Chicken—
bawk, bawk, bawk-bawk-bawk,
” he cackled, laughing and doing the Funky Chicken.

Sheba wanted to
hurt
George Wilson, and she was not about to let this think-he-God’s-gift-to-the-Missionary-Baptist-Church boy get the best of
her. She stared at him with what was clearly an I-ain’t-a-bit-more-playin’-with-you-than-I-am-the-man-in-the-moon expression
and stepped into the clear. In one smooth move, she slid down into a split with such grace that her lavender silk hat didn’t
even budge on her head. Only a taste of thigh showed when her lavender silk maxi coat swung back to reveal the matching short
dress beneath it. Then, without missing a beat, she jumped back up on her feet, breaking into the Crazy Legs, and then the
Robot.

“Some smart-mouth Negro who shall remain unnamed in front of
his
parishioners need to shut up and take some notes on this lesson,” Sheba said as she bent back into a Parliament-Funkadelic
version of the Limbo. She eased back up and then slipped into a Camel Walk that had everybody looking at the wooden floor
of the Masonic Lodge as if it had turned into the hot sands of the Sahara Desert. “Ooooh, Rev. Wilson,” someone said, “Sheba
Cochran just capped on you good!” Folks started clapping and calling out, “Go on, girl, ’cause you know your self is just
as bad as that Foxy Brown.”

George stopped dancing and was just moving from side to side with the beat, unable to tear his eyes away from Sheba. Those
moves on that girl made him wonder, when he knew better than to, what kind of moves Sheba could put on him in private—and
to make matters worse, she had the nerve to look breathtaking in that lavender suit. George glanced upward for a second and
made a silent plea: “Help me, Father.”

Sheba danced right out of the Camel Walk and spun around so fast, she looked like she was doing a
Soul Train
pirouette. Then she stopped spinning, purposefully landed right in front of George, stared him dead in the eye, and stated
“So, you were saying that I couldn’t handle you? What about you handling me?”

“You can handle me in a Soul Train line, Miss Sheba Loretta Cochran,” George whispered in his I-ain’t-in-the-pulpit-now voice.
“But there’s just some situations where you wouldn’t be able to do a thing with me, girl.”

Sheba narrowed her eyes at George, thinking that he had more nerve than Goliath when he
thought
he was going to whip little David’s tail. She said, “Yeah, right, and the world was not created in seven days,
Pastor.
It took eight.”

Mr. Louis Loomis and Louise, who were watching those two fuss and dance down the Soul Train line, kept signaling each other
to mark the progress of George and Sheba’s tiff. Leaning over to Louise, Mr. Louis Loomis whispered, “That boy don’t always
make the best use of that connection he got with the Lord.”

Then he pulled back, grabbing the belt hoops on his tuxedo pants, and started dancing like Cab Calloway did when he sang “Minnie
the Moocher.”

Katie Mae was stuck at one of the large banquet tables with Cleavon, Latham, and the rest of the Johnson clan, wishing she
could yank that mink stole off Cleavon’s mother’s neck and choke the living daylights out of her. If that woman didn’t get
on her nerves, she didn’t know who did. Besides, she wanted to get in the Soul Train line and dance with everybody else so
bad that she could practically taste the music. And she would have gone over there and done just that, had Cleavon not picked
that horrible fight with her before they left, threatening separation if she didn’t do his bidding at the wedding and reception.

When Cleavon saw George and Sheba dancing down the Soul Train, and Katie Mae looking like she was praying to get over there,
he said in a disgusted voice, “And that’s who you want to install as the permanent pastor of this church?”

Then he pointed to Mr. Louis Loomis, dancing like Cab Calloway, and shook his head. “This church is going straight to the
dogs.”

“Naw, Uncle Cleavon,” Latham replied. “From the looks of things, I’d say it was going to the goats—the
old
goats.”

Everyone at the table started laughing—everyone except Cleavon. Both the hundredth anniversary and the date that George’s
interim pastorship expired were almost upon them. There was nothing funny about the adversaries Cleavon would have to face
in the battle he was about to wage. That old Cab-Calloway-dancing goat over there was the kind who could pack dirt under his
feet faster than the speed of light, and then walk right out of any hole you tried to throw him in. And Lord help you when
he finally got out and snatched on that big Sears belt.

Mozelle sat in a white brocade chair in the bridal suite at the Chase Park Plaza Hotel, arranging her pale silver nightgown
and not knowing quite what to do with herself. She was amazed at the fancy room, with its white and gold decor, huge crystal
vase filled with long-stemmed white roses, and expensive champagne, chilling in an ornate sterling silver bucket. Years ago,
when they were younger, the only room she and Joseaphus would have been welcome in at the Chase Park Plaza was the one where
they stored the mops and brooms for the maids and janitors.

Her new husband had gone out to get some ice and, she suspected, to give her time to get ready for him. It was a strange feeling,
being a bride again after all of these years. She got up and went to check herself out in the mirror. Her gown was very pretty—a
gift from Sheba Cochran. It was made of the finest silver silk, with spaghetti straps and it clung too close for her comfort,
even if it did look real good on her.

She sprayed on some more Estée Lauder perfume and went back to sit in the chair, wondering what she was supposed to do when
Joseaphus came in. Oscar hadn’t been very romantic, and she was pretty dumb about men when she married him. And if the truth
be told, she was
still
kind of dumb about men and the way they were with their natures. But she suspected this wedding night would be very different
from her first one—or at least she hoped so.

Mozelle started to get up again and sip on some of the expensive champagne the members of the Mellow Slick Cougars Club, of
all people, had given to her and Joseaphus as a wedding gift. She thought about how Old Daddy had come strutting up to them
at the reception, with Warlene on his arm and a fancy bottle in his hand. Smiling, he’d said to Joseaphus, “Man, I never thought
you needed an invitation to join the club because you were not the kind of man who would really take to being a Mellow Slick
Cougar. But you were always one cool brother, Joseaphus. And to honor you and this day, and this lovely little lady here,
the club brought this for you. It’s two hundred fifty dollars a bottle—top of the line.”

Joseaphus said, “Thank you, Old Daddy. And you right—I never was a Cougar type, so no harm done by me.”

Old Daddy gave Joseaphus the “Black Power” sign, like he’d been watching all the young bloods do, and then held out his palm.
Joseaphus slapped it and gave Old Daddy a firm handshake. Then Old Daddy leaned down and kissed Mozelle softly on the cheek.
He said, “You be good. You hear me, babygirl? ’Cause I think you gone get a taste of a
real
man tonight.”

Mozelle was deeply embarrassed, but Joseaphus calmed her with a gentle pat on the hand. He knew how bashful and nervous Mozelle
was about their wedding night.

The door opened, and Joseaphus strolled in with ice bucket in hand, which he set down on top of a towel on the dresser. He
walked over to where she was sitting and bent over, hands on either arm of her chair. Then he lifted one of her hands to his
lips.

“I would get down on my knees and kiss on you a bit, Mozie,” he said, “but I don’t think that is such a good idea at my age.”

Mozelle giggled and didn’t pull back when Joseaphus drew her up and took her in his arms, tracing soft circles on her bare
shoulders. He leaned down and kissed one of those shoulders and let his fingers slip under one of the straps. Mozelle stood
perfectly still, holding her breath.

Joseaphus knew he was getting to her, which was what he’d planned. He slid his fingers over her shoulder, up her neck, and
on to her chin, lifting her lips to his for a deep, soulful kiss. When he felt her relax and let out a breath, he slid his
hand to the back of her head, luxuriating in the silky softness of her hair. Still kissing her, he edged toward the bed, where
he sat down and pulled her in close to him. She looked so shy, it made him laugh out loud.

“Baby, it’s okay,” he said, with his eyes soft and the corner of his mouth turned up in a slight grin. Then he frowned. “This
is in the way,” he said as he slowly pulled her nightgown down to her feet.

Mozelle gasped and said, “Oh, Joseaphus, I . . . ”

“Look like heaven,” he said, holding her at arm’s length. Mozelle’s skin was satiny and radiant, with barely a stretch mark
or an age spot. Her little tummy tooted out just enough to be cute. Joseaphus ran his hands over her hips, getting a little
squeeze right at the dimpled part of the top of her thighs. He liked her thighs. They were full, round, and soft—a woman’s
thighs.

Joseaphus stopped and gazed into Mozelle’s face. She was softening under his touch. He liked that. “Baby, let me get undressed,”
he whispered.

Mozelle gave Joseaphus a shy smile and slipped under the covers as he stood up and started taking off his clothes. Beneath
his wedding garb, he had on a white undershirt and a pair of white silk boxers with tiny blue moons and stars. Mozelle tried
to peek through the slit in those white boxers to see the rest of her husband, which tickled Joseaphus no end. But he didn’t
let on. He just calmly removed his socks and shoes, stood up and took off his undershirt, then walked over to the bed.

Mozelle loved the sight of Joseaphus. He had a handsome face, smooth, even skin, and strong, nicely shaped legs—not big and
muscled but not all skinny and dry and scaly like Oscar’s, either. His butt was nice and “toochie,” not falling up under his
legs like she saw on some men his age. And his chest was beautiful, not hard or superdeveloped but just comfortably firm,
with fuzzy gray hair trailing down to his stomach.

When Joseaphus knew Mozelle had gotten herself an eyeful, he slipped out of his boxers and stood there, not in the least bashful.
Mozelle’s eyes got so big and round, Joseaphus laughed and said, “Baby, don’t you worry none. Daddy got it
all
under control.”

Mozelle scooted deeper under the covers and pulled the quilt up to her nose like it was zero degrees in the room. Joseaphus
loosened the bedclothes and slipped in beside her, pulling her close so he could feel her warm skin next to his. He sighed
softly and said, “Baby, I think you’re trembling. You have to know that I love you, Mozie.”

“I love you, Joe,” she whispered back in a husky and sexy voice that came as a surprise to her, let alone Joseaphus.

“And you know something, baby,” he whispered in her ear, “God is truly amazing to have created something this good and make
it so that folks as old as us can still enjoy it.”

Mozie giggled and whispered back, “He truly is an amazing God. Because only the Lord could have given me you.”

“Ohhhh, thank you, baby,” Joseaphus breathed, as he held tight to his wife and the two of them became one flesh.

Sheba pulled up in front of her house, relieved that the couple that lived across the street wasn’t having a card game tonight.
She was not in the mood to bang on their front door and make whoever had the nerve to park in her space get his sorry behind
outside to move his car.

“Gerald, baby,” Sheba said to her oldest, “as soon as we get in the house, I want you and Lucille to help Carl Lee and La
Sheba get ready for bed. l am so tired that I can hardly see straight.”

“Okay, Mama,” Gerald answered.

As soon as Sheba put the car in park, Gerald and Lucille grabbed hold of their sleeping brother and sister and helped them
up to the house. Sheba followed and went straight to her room, kicked off her shoes, removed her hat—massaging her head to
relieve some of the tension she was feeling—took off her clothes, put on her robe, picked up her favorite pajamas, then headed
to the bathroom for a long hot soak.

As soon as the tub was full of bubbly water, Sheba eased down and let it embrace her tired body, as she closed her eyes. Miss
Mozelle’s wedding was the most beautiful wedding she had ever attended. It was fun, sweet, loving, and full of the Holy Ghost.
And it was exactly her own heart’s desire to get married to a man who loved her and who knew in his heart that the Lord had
been their Supreme Matchmaker. Tears streamed down her face as Sheba thought about George and how much she loved him, much
as she sometimes wished she didn’t. “Lord,” she whispered through her tears, “will You please let that be me one day? Bless
me with a husband and make me a bride.”

Then a soothing thought eased its way into her soul: “This battle is not yours, Sheba. It’s the Lord’s.”

Ever since the reception had ended, George had been driving around feeling sad and torn up inside. He longed to have Sheba
in his heart, in his arms, in his life. But he was stubborn to a fault and, to tell the truth, afraid what would happen if
he gave his heart to Sheba—and just as scared of what would happen if he didn’t.

It was after eleven at night when he finally pulled up in front of Sheba’s house, parking and sitting in the car, wrestling
with himself, listening to Ann Peebles sing, “I’m Gone Tear Your Playhouse Down.” Sheba might not have gone after his playhouse,
but she sure was tearing down the fortress walls around his heart.

The house was completely dark, so when the song ended, with a mixture of relief and disappointment George restarted the car.
But then the porch light snapped on, and when he saw the door open, he cut off the motor again. Sheba was standing in the
doorway in white pajamas, trimmed with soft lavender ribbon, and a bright purple satin wrap on her head. She looked so adorable
that, before he knew it, George was out of his car and standing on her front steps.