Second Sunday (33 page)

“YES! YES! Ahhh . . . MamaLouise. It feels like the baby is kicking me in the back!”

“Bertha,” Karen asked, with a worried look on her face, “can you close your legs?”

“No, stupid!” Bertha sobbed, sweating and panting.

“Hmm, I’d say this baby is coming. Lay Bertha down on the floor. Melvin Jr., sit behind her. And I want you to grab her under
her knees and hold them up for me.”

Karen dug around in her black bag for some surgical scissors. When she pulled them out, Bertha managed to say, “What you gone
do with those?”

“Cut your panty hose and underwear off.”

“In front of everybody? Ohhhh, Lawd.”

Karen waved the men off to a corner, while MamaLouise and Nettie came over to shield Bertha’s body from view. As she cut off
Bertha’s underclothes, Karen told Phoebe, “Go and boil some water so I can sterilize my scalpel and scissors.” Then she asked,
“Miss Sheba, are there towels here?”

“Yeah,” MamaLouise piped up. “We have some clean towels and white sheets that we use for Communion Sunday.”

“Melvin Jr.!!!” Bertha hollered out.

“Yeah, baby. What you want, baby? Tell me, baby!”

“It feels like a big watermelon.”

“What?” Melvin Jr. said.

“The baby?” Karen asked. She put on her rubber gloves and took a look.

“Mama, Mama,” Bertha cried.

“Mama’s here, Sweet Potato,” Nettie crooned, as she stroked her daughter’s forehead with a cool towel. Poor Bert was pacing
in the corner with the men, almost having a heart attack at seeing his little girl in so much pain.

“The baby’s head has crowned,” Karen said. “She’s not going to last until the ambulance comes. Where is Phoebe?”

“Right here,” Phoebe answered as if on cue, carrying the pot of boiling water.

Karen dropped her tools in the pot while Sheba pinned a big sheet around her to protect her clothes. Then Karen said, “Bertha,
I need for you to push when I tell you to. And Rev. Wilson, you have very little if any time left to marry them.”

“Do you?” George began again.

“Lawd,” Bertha hollered.

“. . . Melvin Earl Vicks, Jr.”

“LAWD.”

“Push, Bertha,” Karen commanded.

“I can’t. It hurts.”

“You better.”

“. . . take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife in all ways . . .”

“Lawd!”

“I do, Pastor. I do,” Melvin Jr. said hurriedly.

“The baby’s head,” Karen said.

“JEEESUZZZ!”

“Now his shoulder.”

“HEELLLPPPP!!!!!!!!!!!!”

“Rev. Wilson, hurry,” Nettie and MamaLouise exclaimed together.

“By the power . . . ”

“JESUS! JUST KILL ME!”

“Y’all married. In Jesus’ name. Y’all married. Amen.”

“It’s a boy,” Karen said brightly, smiling and holding up a screaming, mad, big, fat, healthy little baby boy.

Melvin Jr. started to cry. He held his wife close, gazing at his bellowing son, sounding just like his mama, and said, “You
a good God! Thank you, Lord. Thank you, Lord.”

George grabbed Sheba’s hand and pulled her along as he made his way back to the sanctuary.

“Baby, we need to get back in church,” he said. “I just hope Old Daddy hasn’t shot anybody else while I was gone. I’m not
looking to perform a wedding and funeral in an hour’s time.”

As they hurried into the sanctuary, Sheba realized why she had been so nervous about being introduced as the new First Lady.
With Lyles’s attempted takeover, Old Daddy shooting Rev. Hamilton, Warlene exposing her crazy sister, and Bertha getting married
and giving birth at the same time, being First Lady was a job that no thinking woman would attempt to do alone. It was the
kind of job that only the Lord could help you handle.

The sanctuary was in complete chaos. Now it was Cleavon and Latham who were the center of controversy, surrounded by a ring
of angry church members, who were all up in their faces, shouting and shaking their fists. Mr. Louis Loomis and Joseaphus
Cantrell had grabbed hold of Cleavon’s mother, Vernine, who was pushing folks to get to her son, and carried her to the door,
opened it, and put her out.

Two older deaconesses in the church had set upon Latham and proceeded to beat him in the direction of the door. One was armed
with a big, ugly, pea green pocketbook and the other with two church fans—one in each hand.

George tried to subdue his unruly flock, waving his arms to get their attention, but his voice was all but drowned out in
the commotion. He looked for Sheba and found her up in the pulpit, down on her knees, starting to pray. George ran to join
her, on the way grabbing the organist and steering her toward the instrument.

As the chords of “My Heavenly Father Watches over Me” rang out in the sanctuary, folks realized that their pastor and First
Lady were not caught up in the fracas. Instead, they were on their knees, calling on the Lord to bring healing to the church.
Some of the scufflers immediately dropped to their knees, while others made their way to the altar. Within minutes, the tension
and anger that had gripped the church had begun to fade, replaced by an air of warmth and peace.

When George and Sheba stood and faced the congregation, they saw Cleavon sitting in the back of the church with his face all
twisted up. George just stared at him, astonished at his nerve, but Sheba left her husband’s side to confront him. She said,
“You punk. You get on your knees and pray for your church, or take yourself and the mess you made of out of here.”

Cleavon had stood up defiantly and was ready to walk out, when it struck him that Sheba had called him out of his name.

“My name ain’t ‘You punk.’ Sheba, you better use my name when you talk to me.”

“Can’t do that.”

“What?” Cleavon said, as George eyed his wife curiously, wondering what was up.

“You punk, I once overheard you bragging to Latham that Rev. Earl Hamilton would be the pastor of this church, or your name
was not Cleavon O’Rell Johnson. Well, he’s not the pastor of this church. So I guess Cleavon is not your name.”

O
n the Second Sunday in June, Gethsemane Missionary Baptist Church celebrated its hundred-year anniversary. Over the past nine
months, it had been nearly devastated by a raging storm of trial and tribulation. But thanks to the faith of its steadfast
members, the church had emerged from that storm not only intact but with a rainbow of blessings curved over it.

Folks came to church on the anniversary dressed like it was Easter Sunday. The morning service was so hot that it left some
members shouting and praising the Lord all the way to their cars. Thirteen people, including Warlene and Old Daddy, got saved
and became candidates for Baptism. Seven more people came up to be baptized on the spot. Nine rededicated their lives to Christ.
Twenty-eight people received the Holy Ghost and the gift of tongues. And so many people got anointed and slain in the Spirit,
there were folks laying out on the floor all over the sanctuary.

The afternoon service, with its special hundred-year-celebration concert, promised to be even more spirit-filled—“a hot Holy
Ghost good time,” in Mozelle’s words. The concert was the debut of the church’s newest choir, the King’s Men, or as they called
themselves, the KMs. The KMs had been founded by Jackson Williams, who felt the church needed a chorus to showcase its best
male singers—with himself being one of them, a tenor who could put Dennis Edwards of the Temptations to shame.

For this special day, Sheba was elegant in a violet silk suit, with her hair done in the same French roll of cornrowed braids
that Sylvia had designed for her wedding. Her makeup was natural and sweet—soft gray shadow on her eyelids, glowing blush
on her cheeks, and rich pink lipstick specially selected by Precious to complement her outfit.

George looked down at Sheba from the pulpit and gave his First Lady a sexy wink. He loved the way she always grinned and lowered
her eyes when he did it. Then he gazed out over the congregation, lifting up his hands to declare, “God is a good God. Say
‘Amen,’ church.”

“Amen, Pastor.”

“Say ‘Hallelujah,’ church!”

“Hallelujah!”

“Say ‘Praise the Lord,’ church!”

“Praise the Lord!”

“Now look at the person next to you and say, ‘Neighbor, my God don’t play. That’s why I trust in Him each and every day.’”

Everybody looked to their right or left and repeated, “Neighbor, my God don’t play. That’s why I trust in Him each and every
day.”

“Y’all ready to have some more church?”

“Yes, Lawd,” some folks hollered out.

“Well, let’s get this show on the road. Church, the King’s Men.”

George took his seat beside Sheba, enjoying the chance to do something a pastor rarely could—sit with his wife in church.
Taking her hand, George wondered again why it had taken him so long to understand that this woman was the answer to his prayers—all
he could ever want in a wife and helpmeet.

The musicians came out first. There were twelve of them, nine men and three women, dressed in black tuxedos and black formal
gowns—pianist, organist, bass player, lead guitar, conga drummer, drummer, trumpet and French horn player, tenor and alto
saxophonists, flutist, and violinist. Tuning their instruments, they struck up the chords of the first song, a funky gospel-blues
piece.

Two ushers opened the double doors at the back of the church, revealing the KMs in formation, with Mr. Louis Loomis leading
the pack. He led them down the center aisle to the halfway point, where they stopped and stood rocking from side to side,
just feeling the rhythm and letting everybody get a good look at them. Each KM was wearing a powder blue leisure suit, a black
silk big-collared shirt, a silver chain, and a black suede hat; and each carried a black cane.

Mr. Louis Loomis searched the sanctuary for Louise, who was sitting with Bertha, holding her new great-grandson. When he caught
her eye and saw her smile, he broke into a rhythmic strut down the aisle, with the rest of the choir behind him. Then, one
by one, each KM removed his hat to the beat of the music, from the oldest members—Mr. Louis Loomis and Joseaphus Cantrell—down
to the youngest—Melvin Jr. and Jackson Williams.

When they reached the choir stand, they laid their hats on the seats behind them, handed their canes to waiting ushers, and
started moving with the music. Then Mr. Louis Loomis stepped up to the microphone. With the funky beat of the song going
whommp de whommp, de whommp whommp whommp whommp,
Mr. Louis Loomis started singing, like a raspy James Cleveland:

“The devil gone try and keep you all down. But like that old goat in a story, every time that old devil throw dirt on your
head, pack it down with your feet and come out ahead. ’Cause God’s got your back, when you down in a hole, He’ll get you out,
if the story be told . . .”

The chorus joined in on the vamp, “
He’ll get you out, if the story be told, if the story be told.
”

As their voices soared across the sanctuary, wrapping the church up in their powerful and anointed music, the KMs started
clapping and stomping, and the congregation joined in. You couldn’t just hear this song, it ran all through you, and it felt
good. Mr. Louis Loomis repeated the verse, then effortlessly ran a smooth ad-lib around the chorus. As the choir sang, “
He’ll get you out,
” Mr. Louis Loomis intoned, between the lines, “
If the story be told. If the story be told . . .”

Immersed in the music, Mr. Louis Loomis started getting happy. Grabbing the microphone off the stand, he danced down to the
front of the altar and leaped high in the air. As he landed, he kicked out a leg, clutching his infamous belt, and called
out “Laaawwwwd” in a shout-scream. Already at a fever pitch from the singing, the crowd matched the shout with their own praise,
calling out, “Sang, sang, sang,” “God is up in here
today
,
”
“Praise the Lord,” and even one “Don’t hurt yourself now.”

After one more verse and a final holler from Mr. Louis Loomis, the song came to an abrupt end, with that cutoff that gospel
choirs have down to an art form. But the congregation, still clapping, stomping, and dancing in place, couldn’t let go of
the song. Miss Mozelle started singing the verse in her rich contralto until another woman and then a man joined in. They
were sounding too good, and the KMs had to rise to that challenge and start singing again. They sang a cappella at first,
and then the musicians got happy and lit into the song, sparking a Holy Ghost fire in the church.

And that was all it took for the rest of the congregation to get happy and cut loose shouting, spilling from the pews into
the aisles to work out. Sheba hopped up and started dancing right at the altar with such fervor that Louise leaned over and
whispered to Mozelle, who was now seated, “Girl, King David didn’t have nothing on that chile.”

As the music broke over her like a wave, Sheba lost herself in the rhythm, dancing so fast that her feet were a dizzying blur.
The whole church was lit up, the air electric with calls and cries of praise to God. Phoebe searched for Jackson in the sea
of dancing, shouting folk but didn’t see him until he sprinted past her, breathlessly shouting, “Jesus!”

The Holy Ghost was shooting through George, filling his heart with praise and rejoicing. He had been through a storm, and
the Lord had brought him out with such a mighty victory, his clothes didn’t even get wet. As the Holy Ghost slammed down on
him, he fell in step with his wife up in front of the church, dancing with all his heart, and all his soul, and all his might.
They were husband and wife, deeply in love, coming together before the Lord, giving up the praise to the Heavenly Father and
worshiping Him as one.

But no one forgot that the Gethsemane Missionary Baptist Church Centennial Celebration almost didn’t happen. When Clydell
Forbes died, the church came close to dying itself, almost losing the spiritual fortitude to get back up and walk on faith.
It had learned—at times, the hard way—that God don’t play, and that if He is for you, can’t nobody even think about standing
against you. And that was definitely a reason to dance and shout and keep the songs ringing out, and the high praise going
late into the night of that Second Sunday. For as Nettie told Bert, “If the celebration keep on going like this, we gone walk
out this church and step right on up to glory.”