I Say a Little Prayer

by E. Lynn Harris

“So are you nervous?” Skylar asked me.

  “I’m trying not to think about it,” I said as I took my seat on one of the dark maple wooden stools at Skylar’s bar. He had invited me over to dinner on Saturday evening to show me photographs he had taken of his latest “boyfriend.” I was happy, because I was too nervous worrying about my debut at church the next day to cook.

  Dinner at Skylar’s meant takeout, not a home-cooked meal, but that didn’t stop him from bringing out his favorite Versace china to serve the fried chicken wings and mac and cheese from Gladys and Ron’s Chicken & Waffles in midtown Atlanta. “So why did you pick church for your comeback debut?” Skylar asked.

  “My minister asked me, and I used to love singing in church. It was the first place I ever sang,” I said.

  “Oh, that’s so precious. What did you sing?” Skylar asked as he tapped me on my arm like I was a little boy.

  “I remember it like it was yesterday. I was eight years old, and at our Easter pageant, I sang ‘Yes Jesus Loves Me,’” I said, smiling at the memory from my childhood.

  “So what do I have to wear to this church? I hope you don’t expect me to wear a suit or something stiff like that,” Skylar said. He moved over to his liquor cabinet and pulled out a bottle of cognac. He came back over to his place at the bar and poured a capful of the golden liquor into his glass of lemonade.

  “Would you like a little taste?” he asked as he tilted the bottle toward my half-empty glass of cola.

  “No, I’m fine. I’m in training. Got to protect the voice,” I said, clearing my throat.

  “Whatever. How’s the chicken?”

  “Greasy but good,” I said as I dipped the wing into a vat of blue cheese salad dressing Skylar had poured into a Versace gravy bowl.

  “It’s fried chicken, darling. It’s supposed to be greasy. It’s not some of that fancy stuff you make.” Skylar laughed.

  “So where are the pictures?” I asked.

  “In my office. Finish your vittles and I’ll let you see.”

  I ate my chicken and walked through the dining room to Skylar’s office on the other end of his Victorian-style house about two blocks from Piedmont Park. Skylar had decorated it himself in bright colors like lime green, yellows, and rose reds. His office had a faux leather covering on the wall and a beautiful Queen Anne desk and chair.

  I looked on the desk covered with photographs and comp cards. Meeting models on a regular basis was something Skylar and I had in common. Sometimes he would give me a call and say, “I just saw the most beautiful boy, but I can’t use him over here. I am going to send him your way.”

  I could hear footsteps and the barking of Skylar’s miniature poodle, Diva Delight. I was getting ready to turn toward the doorway to greet Diva when I spotted a comp card of Griffin on the edge of the desk. I picked it up and inspected it. I didn’t know Sky knew him.

  “What are you doing?” Skylar asked as he sauntered into the room in a matching robe and pajamas.

  “This is the guy I’ve been dealing with,” I said as I held up the comp card. “The one I actually considered going out with more than three times.”

  Skylar frowned. “Please tell me you’re kidding.”

  “Why? He’s beautiful,” I said.

  “Yes he is, but honey, he’s a pain in the ass. And I don’t mean the good kind,” Skylar said, shaking his head in dismay.

  “Yeah, you’re probably right. A few days ago, he came over and told me some bogus story about being hired to find out information about me. Told me to watch my back.”

  “Well, believe him, honey. A friend of mine who was a flight attendant based in Denver told me that Ms. Griffin is a real switchblade-carrying sissy,” Skylar said.

  “I didn’t know Griffin lived in Denver, and why would he come after me?”

  “Because he probably thinks you got more money than you have. I heard his family had money but he got disinherited, probably for being so ghetto. He’s just bad news. Tear that number up.”

  “Don’t have to do that. He’s already changed his number,” I said.

  “Good. Save your pennies for somebody bringing some throw-you-against-the-wall sex,” Skylar advised.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  It was such a stunningly beautiful morning that I was tempted to keep walking past the church. I took a deep breath and inhaled one final smell of the fading scent of summer. It was hard to believe it was the beginning of September.

  Moments later, I found myself more nervous than a five-year-old child getting ready for his first Easter speech as I noticed the sunshine stream through the stained-glass windows. I shifted a bit in my seat, straightening the legs of my new navy-blue pinstriped Italian suit. I wanted to make sure I looked sharp the first time I sang in church in more than twenty years. If something went wrong and I didn’t sound my best, at least church members could say, “Well, he looked good.”

  I turned my attention to Sister Maria Lawson as she extended a welcome to the visitors with a huge smile painted on her face. She was wearing a pale pink jersey dress that camouflaged the fullness of her figure, and her long dark-brown hair fell in a sweet order of tight curls. I looked nervously around the church; it seemed filled with more than the usual five hundred worshipers. I knew that if Skylar made it on time there would be one more than normal.

  The offering was taken and the time for my debut was getting closer. When Vincent nodded for me to take my place just a few feet from the pulpit, a sudden flush of excitement passed through my body, but my nervousness remained. I straightened my lemon yellow tie, trying to loosen it against my ivory white shirt.

  I felt like I was walking in slow motion as I moved toward the microphone. At that moment, I said a little silent prayer. Everything was so still you could hear a tear drop, and then there was a bristling energy in the church as members started whispering. I wondered what they were saying, and then I caught Skylar prancing into the back of the church. He winked at me and waved. I returned him a fragile smile like my mother used to give me when I sang back home.

  I suddenly wished I was among those supportive people back at Bethel Baptist, but the members of Abundant Joy loved me just the same, or at least I hoped they did.

  I looked at Vincent, and he began playing the overture. I opened my mouth and I felt my heart beating as I sang the first three notes. “Not a second,” spilled from me in a clear, tenor voice that sounded rich and solemn. “Or another minute…not an hour or another day.”

  That was when the first “Hallelujah” rang through the church.

  Halfway through the song, I felt like I had been singing in front of this church my entire life. I unclenched my fists and reached toward the heavens with my eyes closed tightly, and continued to sing.

  I could hear applause and a female voice shout, “Sing, baby.” Just as I was singing the last stanza, I heard a familiar voice shout, “Sing, bitch. You ain’t sanging. You better just sang, Chauncey Greer. Sang!”

  I opened my eyes and saw Skylar almost prancing down the aisle waving a white lace handkerchief, encouraging me. Some of the members turned toward him with disapproving glances. Skylar put his hand over his mouth and sought refuge in the closest pew.

  “O Lord…O Lord,” I sang.

  As I finished the song, I didn’t know if I should shake my head in shame at Skylar’s antics or break out laughing. Instead, I listened to the crescendo of applause and more shouts of “Hallelujah” from the congregation. A feeling of calm warmth radiated through my body as I almost stumbled back to my seat in the first row. I was surprised when warm tears streamed down my face, and I felt a hand tap my knee. Sister Maria passed me a perfectly starched white handkerchief. I smiled toward her and mouthed, “Thank you.”

  Pastor Kenneth took the pulpit with a huge smile on his face.

  “Can the church say Amen?” he said as he looked toward me and started clapping. Suddenly, the entire church was standing and applauding as my tears continued.

  “Stand up and
take a bow, Brother Chauncey,” Pastor Kenneth said.

  I stood up meekly and half waved through my blurred vision of smiling faces. Then I sat down quickly.

  Pastor Kenneth continued his applause, and when he stopped, he looked at me. “Brother Chauncey, the Lord has blessed you with a tremendous gift. Can the church say Amen?”

  “Amen,” the congregation said in unison.

  “You know, in a couple of months, our church and city is hosting a revival with one of this country’s most promising young ministers. The host committee was trying to work out a contract to bring Donnie McClurkin to do the opening song. Now, you members know me and my wife love us some Donnie McClurkin, but after what I just heard, I think Donnie just lost a job. Will you sing that same song at the opening, Brother Chauncey?”

  I didn’t know what revival Pastor Kenneth was talking about, but it sounded important. I nodded my head in an affirmative motion as I wrapped my arms around my chest and rocked myself as though I was in my mother’s arms.

  “Why can’t I be your manager?” Skylar asked.

  “What do you know about managing a music career?” I asked as I removed the remains of the standing rib roast I had prepared for Sunday dinner, along with scalloped potatoes and asparagus. I was still on a high from my performance at church, and now I felt even more confident about regaining my singing career.

  I made up my mind to look into moving to either New York or Los Angeles, where it would be easier to get a record deal. Still, doing my own CD had its advantages, like singing my music my way. If I wanted to sing about loving a him rather than a her, then I could do that. If I had a song that talked about my faith and love for the Lord, then why shouldn’t I be able to sing that? I didn’t want to be put in a musical box.

  I walked back into the living area, where Skylar was sitting on the sofa with his legs crossed tightly and sipping a glass of cognac.

  “So you didn’t answer my question,” Skylar said.

  I opened a bottle of water. “You don’t know anything about managing a music career.”

  “I didn’t know anything about dressing tacky bitches either, but that didn’t stop me from becoming one of the top stylists in the country. You can sing, baby. I mean, I was blown away by you this morning. If I had known singing like that was going on in church, I would have taken my ass to church long before. Did you see all those church girls looking at me all cross-eyed when I had my slight slip of the tongue?”

  “Skylar, you did use a curse word in church,” I said, not being able to keep the smile from my face.

  “Bitch is the name for a female dog. I just got kinda carried away because I didn’t know you could sing like that.”

  “Didn’t you listen to the copy of the CD I gave you from the group?”

  “Yeah, I listened to it, but I just figured they had fixed y’all voices with one of those mixing machines.”

  “So why do you want to manage me?”

  “’Cause you gonna be a rich bitch, and I am tired of picking out skirts and blouses for women who don’t know how to dress. I am sick of smelling their perfume and hair spray and listening to them talk about their boring-ass husbands, or boyfriends who won’t marry them. I want to be on the road meeting people like Usher, Ashanti, and Little John,” Skylar said.

  “That’s not the kind of music and crowd I am trying to go after. I want to write and sing songs like Stevie Wonder and Luther Vandross,” I said.

  “Those two are old school. Only people who want to listen to them are old folks. We need to reach the masses. The young people. See what a good manager I would be? I think big!” Skylar said as he snapped his fingers in the air. Before I could respond, the phone rang. I looked at the caller ID and saw private caller displayed across the screen. I started not to answer, but then I picked up the phone.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “May I speak to Chauncey?” The voice sounded familiar, but I couldn’t quickly identify it.

  “This is Chauncey,” I said.

  “Chauncey, this is Vincent, the minister of music from Abundant Joy.”

  “Oh yeah, Vincent.”

  “I hope you don’t mind, but I got your number from the church secretary,” he said.

  “That’s not a problem, and please forgive me,” I said.

  “For what?”

  “I got caught up in the moment and didn’t thank you properly. First for working with me on my solo, and second for playing so beautifully today,” I said.

  “You don’t have to thank me. It’s my job, and it was a joy to play with somebody who sings so beautifully and has such a warm spirit.”

  “Thanks. That’s so nice of you to say,” I said. I was getting ready to ask him what I could do for him when I heard the call-waiting beep sound.

  “I’ll hold on,” Vincent said before I could even ask him.

  I clicked over to the other line. “Hello.”

  “Hey, baby. Just called to tell you that your daddy and me made it back from the Bahamas. You won’t believe this, but both of us got sunburned and we went snorkeling,” my mother said.

  “That’s great, Mama. Can I call you right back? I’m talking with the minister of music from my church,” I said.

  “Are you back to singing in the church? Because me and your daddy would love to hear you sing in a church again. I would be ready to meet my maker if I could just hear my baby sing the Lord’s praises one more time. Please tell me I didn’t miss it,” Mama pleaded.

  “I sang today and it went wonderfully. It went so well, I’ve been asked to sing at this big revival in Atlanta,” I said.

  “Praise the Lord. Praise Him. Then I don’t plan to miss that. When is it?”

  “I’ll call you back, Mama,” I said, remembering that I still had Vincent on the other line.

  “Now, don’t forget. Have you talked to Jonathan?”

  “About a week ago.”

  “I think he took some of those bonds I’ve been saving for my grandkids and cashed them in. I don’t know what’s going on with him, but you can bet the butter on your toast that I’m gonna find out. Something is rotten in Mississippi, if you ask me,” Mama said.

  Sometimes when my mother got on a roll with her conversation, it was hard to get her to stop talking without sounding disrespectful or rude. “Don’t spend a lot of time worrying, Mama. Jonathan is a grown man,” I said.

  “But he is still my baby, and you and I both know he doesn’t act like a grown man.”

  “Okay, Mama, you know what’s best. I’ll call you back,” I said.

  “And don’t forget to get those revival dates for me. I have to make sure it doesn’t conflict with any of your daddy’s and my travel plans. Can’t let any dust gather under these old feet,” Mama said.

  “I don’t think you have to worry about that.” I laughed. “’Bye, Mama.”

  “’Bye, baby, and don’t make me have to call you back for that information. The Good Lord has answered my prayers. My baby is singing again. Praise Him.”

  “I love you, Mama.”

  “I love you too, baby.”

  I clicked the phone over and apologized to Vincent.

  “That’s cool. Look, I’m not going to hold you long, but I want to talk to you about singing at the revival.”

  “Oh, I’m really excited about that. I can’t believe Pastor Kenneth is going to have me replace Donnie McClurkin!”

  “Do you know the bishop who’s doing the revival?” Vincent asked.

  “No, I don’t. Should I?”

  “He’s a guy from Denver, Colorado, and he is no friend to the black community or, more specifically, to black gay people. I’m thinking about trying to organize a boycott during his revival, and though I’m not trying to dip into your business, I thought you should know about this guy before you agreed to sing,” Vincent said. “I also have to tell you that if you do decide to sing, you’ll have to find another musician, because I won’t play for this man.”

  “What’s his nam
e?” I asked, surprised at the passion I heard in Vincent’s voice.

  “Bishop Upchurch,” Vincent said.

  “Upchurch,” I repeated, thinking I hadn’t heard that last name in a long time.

  “Yeah, Bishop Upchurch and his wife, Grayson. Both of them are some real pieces of work. They led a march to the state capitol in Denver against gay marriage, and are heading a drive to get a very anti-gay amendment on the ballot in November. Also, he’s running for the Senate as a Republican,” Vincent said.

  “Is he white?”

  “White? I know you don’t know me that well, Chauncey, but I never worried about what no white man thought of me, my religion, or my bedroom practices. This is a black man with a black Barbie doll wife. They have a television show, and he spends more than fifty percent of his time bashing gay people. We have to take a stand,” Vincent said.

  “Is there any way I can find some information on this guy?” I asked.

  “I’m going on the Internet tonight to get some info from his campaign Web site. Then I’m going to organize some of the church members who are either gay or pro-gay, and ask them to meet with Pastor Kenneth. We need to get him to reconsider bringing this fool to our church.”

  “Thanks for giving me the heads-up. If I give you my e-mail address, will you send me the link to anything you find?” I asked.

  “Sure. What’s your e-mail address?”

  “Send it to my office. It’s cgreer@cuteboy.com,” I said.

  “I will. I’ll give you a call or e-mail when we decide when we’re going to meet,” Vincent said.

  “Do that.”

  “Thanks for listening,” Vincent said.

  “No problem,” I said.

  As I walked back toward the living room, I mouthed, “Upchurch,” and thought, Naw, couldn’t be.

  Early the next morning, my phone rang. I started to let the machine pick it up, but my curiosity got the best of me and I ignored the caller ID.

  “Hello.”

  There was silence over the line.

  “Hello,” I repeated.

  “Stay away from my husband, you fucking faggot,” a female voice said firmly.