Most of the members had heard about what Twylah had done, and had been asking me questions all morning. So getting into my “secret place” with the Most High God was refreshing and renewing.
As praise and worship came to an end, the Spirit of God was high in the place. I opened my eyes to see worshippers crying, and some had come to kneel at the altar.
I looked over at Darvin, who had been relatively quiet the entire morning, but was now crying himself. I didn’t know if they were tears of joy and adoration to God, or if they were tears of sorrow for the drama we’d been experiencing lately.
I placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder and felt his body tense underneath my touch. That was unusual and disconcerting to me, because I wanted my touch to be soothing. Calming. Encouraging.
I tried to search his face for answers but found none. Immediately, the bliss I felt in worship was starting to fade. I shook my head, knowing that this was the devil’s way of stealing my focus and taking my mind off of Jesus. But I was determined not to let anything rob me of my joy.
No sooner than I could think those thoughts, Darvin moved to the pulpit to deliver his weekly Sunday morning message. I was a little taken aback because it wasn’t time for the sermon; yet, he walked toward the podium in a zombie-like state, and took the microphone from its stand.
“Children of God, I stand here today thanking God for His presence. Thanking God for His anointing. Thanking Him for making a way out of no way and being a light to my path when I couldn’t even see.”
People were shouting their amens and hallelujahs, and Darvin seemed to escalate higher and higher with each one.
“We need to know today, church, that God is a good God and worthy to be praised! We need to know that in the time of battle, we can hide in Him. We need to know that in the midnight hour, when we are tossing and turning, not knowing what to do, He’ll be there! Can I get a witness?”
People shouted in agreement. Some members had caught the Holy Ghost and were shouting all up and down the aisles. The Mothers in Zion were not standing to their feet, but were raising their fans in the air, signaling their own agreement. The deacons were shouting, “Preach, Pastor Johnson,” and the musicians were backing him on the B-3 organs and Triton keyboards, sending an electrifying feeling through everyone in the building.
I felt myself getting tingly, and was trying hard to contain my emotions. I didn’t want to break my neck and hurt the baby by dancing all over the stage.
But I sure wanted to join in with my own shout.
I looked around and didn’t see Chanice standing in her usual place behind me, but instead saw a gatekeeper headed in my direction with a note in her hand. Sister Betty Fields walked up to me with a smile as big as ever and handed me a small piece of paper that read: Please give to First Lady Johnson immediately.
A creepy feeling traveled the length of my spine, and without having to open it, I knew that its contents were nothing less than upsetting.
I slowly opened the note that said:
YOUR HUSBAND IS SUCH A GOOD FRIEND TO ME. THANKS FOR SHARING HIM.
Waves of anger permeated through me. What woman had sent this? It had been a while since we’d heard from Dawn. She’d not been at church in a few weeks, and had she been there, I would have presumed that the letter came from her.
Since she wasn’t, I continued on in worship and turned my attention to what Darvin was saying. I was not about to let some woman who was too coward to identify herself interrupt my flow. I was learning more and more about being a first lady, and one thing I’d learned quickly: I would always have to deal with some woman proclaiming her admiration and love for Darvin. I made a mental note to alert the president of the usher board to not give me any more notes that had not been checked first.
“Folks, we need to know that the enemy has come to destroy us, but I declare right now that no weapon formed against you, your family, your marriage, your finances, or your health will be able to prosper. I need for those of you who believe that to give God a thunderous praise!”
Once again the shouts erupted, the screams were released, and the people who had sat down from shouting were back up again.
I smiled because it was good to see people praising God in the manner in which they were praising. In a time when people were turning their backs on God and were being consumed by material possessions, it was awesome to see a remnant still thankful for what God was doing in all of our lives—even in the midst of turmoil.
I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned around to see that Chanice had returned to her seat. The smile that I wore was erased by the look of shock on her face. My heart started skipping beats and the palms of my hands began to sweat. I started to wonder if I was a magnet for trouble. A target for pain. In a line for sorrow. It seemed that every time I turned around, evil was always present.
I leaned back. “What is it, Chanice?”
“First Lady, I don’t want to upset you right now. I’ll wait until service is over. I just wanted to let you know that I was back. I’m sure you noticed that I was gone for quite some time.”
I leaned forward again to steady myself better on my feet. I’d chosen to wear some three-inch heels, and a pregnant woman leaning back on three inches wasn’t good. Glancing at Darvin, I noticed that he was in the throes of his message. Some called it whooping. Some called it hollering. Whatever it was, it had everybody in the building on their feet, praising God.
I turned back to Chanice and whispered, “Pastor is almost done. When he finishes, we’ll go to the back.”
Darvin’s sermon went on for about another fifteen minutes. By the time he was done, he was sweating profusely. His dry cleaning bill was something serious every other week. His suits, shirts, and ties did good to survive six months. Preachers often got a bad rap about their tailored suits, but if only people understood the need for them. Style wasn’t the only factor, but quality certainly was. It wasn’t anything for him to spend a couple of hundred dollars or more every week or so on dry cleaning. He was one of those pastors who dressed up every day in full attire, whether he was preaching or not.
As soon as the altar invitation for salvation had been closed, Chanice and I slipped out the side door that led to the private entrance to our wing.
Once inside my office, I kicked off the BCBG heels that I was wearing, and moved to my chair behind the desk.
“Chanice, what’s going on?”
She searched the floor for apparent ways to say whatever she wanted to say. “First Lady, I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you this, but something terrible has happened.”
Always the one to respond at a glacial pace, she dropped her head as tears flowed down her face.
“Are you all right? What happened?” I asked. The impatience was replaced with fear. I got up and went to sit by her on the couch.
She looked into my eyes. “I don’t know how to tell you this.”
“Whatever it is, just say it.”
“First Lady, Twylah is missing and is presumed dead.”
The shock paralyzed me. She had to have that wrong. “Ch–Chanice,” I stuttered, “are you sure?”
“Yes. They found a suicide note, and a pool of blood on the bathroom floor.”
“What? Are you—wait just a minute. You’re saying that Twylah killed herself?”
Chanice lowered her eyes again. “That’s what they believe. But the startling thing is they can’t find her body.”
That made no sense. “What do you mean they can’t find her body? How can a person kill themselves and then dispose of their own remains?”
“I don’t know.”
My spirit leaned against the walls of shock, and my heart was consumed with sadness. Why in the world would Twylah kill herself? Sure, she’d broken into our house, but was that the reason?
“Who gave you this information?”
“One of the elders notified me that the police were here looking for you just as service was starting. You were so consumed
in praise and worship that I didn’t want to disturb you, so I took the call at the door for you.” She reached over to the cherry wood table sitting next to the couch and pulled a couple of tissues from a box. “The officer said they wanted to ask you a couple of questions because you were one of the last ones to visit her in prison.”
“Me? They want to ask me questions? What would I know about Twylah killing herself?” I started to get really confused. “When I last saw her, she didn’t even hint that she was thinking about ending her life.”
“First Lady, don’t worry about it. I’m sure it’s just standard procedure, considering the break-in.” She patted my hands that were folded tightly in my lap. “It’s going to be fine.”
I physically allowed myself to be drunk in by the plush leather of the couch, and I wished I could stay there until I was totally away from reality. The up-and-down roller coaster of one thing behind the other was taking its toll on me. Tears raced down my cheeks and onto the Louise Ricci suit I was wearing. The soft, expensive fabric of the suit didn’t deserve to be drowned in my tears, but I didn’t deserve to have this much drama happening around me. My grandmother would tell me right about now that there was a brighter day ahead, but I was beginning to wonder if such a day existed.
I sat there and wept until my makeup had smeared lines on my face. Until my eyes burned from the mixture of the pain and mascara that had found its way into my eyes. And it was at that moment that I realized that, although her death was tragic, Twylah was in a much better state than me. If only I had the nerve to do what she’d done. If only I could muster up the strength to go against everything that I was taught; I, too, would rid myself of this never ending saga. I knew I shouldn’t have been thinking that way, especially being the Christian that I was, but I couldn’t help it. The strength I once had was all gone.
I wondered if all this drama was really worth it, and if one day it would be a distant memory hidden in the crevices of our minds. Or perhaps, someone would finally pinch me and wake me up from this long string of nightmares.
I don’t care what anybody says, the glitz and glamour of being in ministry was not worth the pain that you sometimes had to encounter. It was not worth moments like this, when you didn’t know whether to turn to the right or to the left. It was not worth having to bear the burdens of everyone else, while your own remained un-carried.
“First Lady, would you like me to get you a glass of water?”
“No,” I said simply.
“Would you like some fruit or some crackers?” she said, speaking in reference to the food trays arranged on the table adjacent to me.
“No.”
“Would you—”
This time I interrupted her. “Do you want to know what you can get me?”
Eager to help, she said, “Just tell me whatever you need.”
I sat up and replied sarcastically, “I need a new life. Can you get that for me? Huh? Because if you can get it, a new life is exactly what I need.”
Chapter Sixteen
Michelle
Things hadn’t been completely the same since learning of Twylah’s apparent suicide. I’d been in a somber disposition, and hadn’t had much to say to anyone. Including Darvin.
I guess none of us would ever know why Twylah chose to end her life. It had been a couple of months, and her body had still not been found. We later learned that coincidentally, some men had broken into her home that same night. It was believed that during the robbery, they removed her body so it wouldn’t appear they were the killers.
They confessed to dragging her out of the house and dumping her in a lake somewhere in northern Georgia. Much to our dismay, and in spite of the search efforts, her remains were yet to be found.
Twylah’s mother didn’t want to give up so easily the hope of finding her, but with the coaching of the lead detective, she decided to anyway. He had advised that the quicker the case was closed, the sooner we would all begin to heal. I wanted to object, but I had no right to do so. I had to respect her mother’s wishes.
At the memorial service, Darvin had preached a “We all must die” message, ultimately asking those who were not saved to accept Jesus as their Savior.
Twylah’s few family members had shown up, and much to my surprise, Twylah’s ex-boyfriend, Rodney. I couldn’t believe that he had the nerve to show his silly face at her memorial after the way he’d broken her heart. He’d come in there wearing blue jeans, a white shirt, dark blazer, and accompanying dark sunglasses, and had approached the table that held a collage of Twylah’s photographs in a dramatic way.
Once there, he stroked the frames tenderly and allowed tears to freely fall as he pretended to be devastated by her death. After he held up the line for a few minutes, the funeral home attendants assisted him in moving on so that other people could pay their respects. As they tried to drag him away, he openly and loudly began to profess his undying love for her. What a nice to time to do it when she couldn’t hear a word that he was saying. If it had not been for my own sorrow, I would have put a stop to his charade.
Twylah’s mother seemed to be the most hurt of all. She and Twylah had been very close, and losing her was traumatic to the fragile woman who’d sat in the front row of the church, mourning her daughter. Dressed in a black dress with a white lace collar, the woman was poised and controlled, unlike others in her family that were behaving in typical fashion at an African-American funeral. Most of them kept fainting and feigning death, while others just screamed Twylah’s name over and over, asking why she had to leave them on Earth to live without her.
The whole thing was draining. After the service, I’d personally gone to each of her family members and introduced myself. I told them how she and I had become good friends, and that I would greatly miss her.
And the truth was I would miss her. Twylah had been a good friend to me; at least that’s what I thought. Something still didn’t seem right with the attitude that she’d had the last day that I saw her, but I’d learned to accept what she said and count it as a loss. My memories of her were not all bad; some were good and would never be forgotten.
In the meantime, Darvin’s and my relationship was getting worse. We would practically go a week sometimes without much conversation—only saying what was necessary to say. I guess our troubles were starting to get the best of us. He went about his normal routine, and so did I. All of our talks turned into arguments, and it seemed that every night he had a meeting to attend, which, in my mind, was just another excuse to keep from coming home. He once even told me that he found more peace away from me.
So, instead of meeting the ladies for our Thursday night dinner, tonight, I decided to stay home, cook, and wait for Darvin to come. We needed to talk, and I didn’t want to wait another day. Besides the tension between us, there seemed to be something else looming above us.
Before I knew it, steam from the pot that held my rice was burning my arm. I quickly moved my hand, but the damage was already done. I rushed to the sink to put some cold water on my arm, but it did no good. After a few moments of allowing the cool liquid to soothe the burn, I went to the oven to remove the chicken. I’d made one of Darvin’s favorite dinners: cream of mushroom chicken with seasoned rice, broccoli and cheese, and dinner rolls.
All I had to do was make the lemonade and everything would be ready.
The phone ringing interrupted the thoughts I had of Darvin’s would-be appreciation for the home-cooked meal.
“Hello?”
“Hey, baby, how are you?”
I glanced at the clock on the wall. It read nine o’ clock. “I’m good, baby. How are you?”
“I’m okay.” Silence. “Um, listen, I’m not going to be home for at least another couple of hours, and I didn’t want you to feel that you had to wait up on me.”
Not able to hide my disappointment, I said, “Darvin, I thought you told me earlier today that you would be home by nine-thirty.”
He sighed. “I know, baby. I did. I just ha
d a couple of things come up unexpectedly, and so, like I said, it will be another couple of hours.”
I was fuming inside as I looked at all of the hard work I’d gone through to make him a special dinner. “But, Darvin, I cooked one of your favorite meals tonight,” I whined. “I thought we could sit down and have a real conversation—without arguing. You know, like old times.” A smile turned the corners of my mouth as I said that, reminiscing about the conversations that we used to have until the wee hours in the morning.
“Baby, I would love to, but you know what I do. I’m a—”
“Pastor,” I said, finishing his sentence. “The whole world knows it.”
I slammed the pot’s lid down on the counter loud enough for him to hear.
He ignored my frustration and continued. “When things come up at the church or with the church members, it’s my responsibility to make sure that they are taken care of.” He paused. “Look, I will make it up to you, okay?”
“No, it’s not okay, Darvin. I’m tired of your excuses. It seems that when your own home needs tending to, you find another one to upkeep.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Darvin said with anger evident in his voice.
“It’s not supposed to mean anything. It means what it means. While you are off seeing to the needs of the church, the needs of your wife aren’t being met,” I huffed.
“Well, if my wife would take an interest in someone other than herself and her problems, then just maybe she would see that she isn’t the only one dealing with something,” he said.
“And what is that supposed to mean?”
“In your words, it means what it means.”
I hated when Darvin used my own words back at me. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been dealing with a lot lately, and so what if I’ve only been concentrating on myself? Shoot, after all I’ve been through, I deserve to act how I want to act. So what if my attitude was less than pleasant? What do you expect out of me? Do you expect me to always have it together and never get off track?”
Diary of a Mad First Lady Page 11
