Someone close by moved, and I looked over and saw Paula standing up.
“May I make a suggestion?” she asked.
“Sure, but why don’t you tell us your name, sister?” Vincent said.
“My name is Paula Minter. What I think might be more effective is if we pack the church in big numbers a few Sundays before Bishop “Upchuck” brings his traveling show to Atlanta. Each of us should put it upon ourselves to bring five friends to church and to make sure they put a little something in the offering plate,” Paula said. “And while this is a beautiful home, I think we should consider renting a hotel space and including people from other churches.”
“That’s an excellent suggestion,” Vincent said.
It was a good idea, but I didn’t know where I was going to find five people to bring unless I asked Ms. Gladys, Skylar, and Celia to loan me a couple of their friends.
“May I say something?” I heard another female voice ask. I looked up and saw a short, middle-aged woman with beautiful gray hair standing up near the front of the room.
“Sure, Sister Esther,” Vincent said.
She turned and faced the room, holding a dainty handkerchief. Sister Esther’s face painted a picture of anguish, and I was certain that she was getting ready to tell us that our plans were wrong.
“I don’t know how to say this,” Sister Esther said, her voice breaking.
“Take your time, darling,” Vincent said as he moved closer to her and placed his arm around her shoulders.
“I’ll be all right. I just don’t know what I would do without Vincent. Not only can he play the piano and organ, but he has been a good friend to me and my family. For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Esther Mae Smith and I have been attending Abundant Joy for almost three years. I love the church and what Pastor Kenneth and Sista Vivian are doing. But something is bothering me. Vincent said that we can’t let them take another church from us, and I want you to know that it’s not just gay folk who feel that way,” Esther said.
She paused for a moment, took her handkerchief, and dabbed the corners of her eyes. Then she placed the cloth over her mouth for a moment, paused, removed the handkerchief, and began speaking again.
“Me and my late husband, Herman, were founding members of Mount Olive Baptist Church out in Decatur, and we were proud members for over twenty-five years. Herman and me were married there, and my two children were baptized there. Our church was no bigger than a couple of large walk-in closets, but I felt the presence of the good Lord every time I stepped foot inside the sanctuary. Well, many of you know Mount Olive is a lot bigger than any closet these days. Ever since our founding pastor, Ralph Sinclair, retired and turned the church over to his son, Ralph Sinclair the Third, the church has been expanding. You know, his services are now telecast on television not once, but twice a week, and they have outgrown their second sanctuary. They even have a school and credit union now. I ain’t got no problem with the church expanding, especially when it’s helping our people. But I left Mount Olive at least two years too late. I should have been out of there the moment that young man told me…” Sister Esther stopped talking, and this time she could not get the handkerchief up to her eyes to prevent the tears from flowing freely down her face.
“Take your time, Mrs. Esther,” Bruce said.
“Yes, Mama, take your time,” Vincent added. The room was suddenly silent. I glanced at Paula, who was holding Lisa’s hand and gently stroking her hair.
“I just don’t know if I can finish the story. Vincent, you know it. Please tell these young people what that church did to me,” Esther said.
“Are you sure? We can wait,” Vincent said.
“No, you go on, baby. I’m going to sit down, but before I do, I want to tell you young people that I am with you whatever you decide. But I also think we all need to go home tonight, get on our knees, and ask the Good Lord for direction,” she said through her tears before she sat down.
Vincent looked eager to finish her story.
“The church wouldn’t let this wonderful woman have the funeral for her son, my best friend, Bennie, in the church he had been raised in. It was a scandal and an embarrassment, and that’s why we can’t let this happen at Abundant Joy,” Vincent said.
Vincent went on to tell the crowd the situation. The minister had told Sister Esther that if she dared to bring her son’s coffin there, he promised to stand at the door and block her entrance.
Vincent had to pause before he told the rest of the story. “That man actually told Sister Esther that he didn’t want Bennie’s kind in his church—dead or alive.”
As Vincent continued, I could hear not only Sister Esther crying, but several others as well. He ended the story by sharing that Sister Esther had stayed at the church some two years after Bennie’s death, but left the day after she buried her husband, Herman.
I found myself wondering why Sister Esther stayed at the church so long. But no matter what her reason, I had to do something. It was time to take a stand and not allow what had happened to Sister Esther and her son to ever happen anywhere again.
When I got back home, I went to my office computer, and looked again at Damien’s site. I noticed a white pad where I had scribbled down a Denver phone number I’d found for a Damien Upchurch. I didn’t know yet if it was Damien’s number, but I decided I would give it a try and determine if he really had changed that much since our youth.
I jotted down numbers for Restore Ministries and his campaign headquarters. There was a place where you could send an e-mail to Damien, but I decided not to. I was certain he had a personal assistant or someone answering them.
I picked up the phone and dialed the number. After a few rings, an answering machine picked up. “Praise God from whom all blessings flow. This is Bishop Upchurch, and right now I am away from my office, out in the community doing God’s work. Please leave a name and a number, even if you think I have it. Please know God wants you to have a blessed day, and so do I.”
The voice sounded the same, and there was no doubt that it was Damien. My heart fluttered at a rapid rate, and I felt like a young boy making his first phone call to someone he intended to make his beloved. But instead of leaving a message, I simply hung up and let out a long sigh of disappointment.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
It was Friday, and I was looking forward to the weekend. I walked out of my office and saw Ms. Gladys taking off her heels and putting on her tennis shoes, a ritual that meant she was heading home.
“You got big plans this weekend?” I asked.
“Naw, baby. Just church and my club meeting on Saturday,” she said.
“Is Celia still here?”
“Yeah, she in there with that girl,” Ms. Gladys said, her face twisted with disgust.
“What girl?”
“You know, the one who looks like she trying to be in one of them BET videos,” Ms. Gladys whispered. “Girl wear her skirts so short you can see the color of her underpants.”
“Oh, Lontray,” I said. Lontray, who, Celia had explained, was named after a combination of her father, Lonnie, and her mother, Tracy, was one of Celia’s ghetto friends she had not been able to shake from her high school days. Celia referred to her as “hood rich” Lontray. When I asked her what that meant, Celia responded, “You know, when your car note is five times your rent.”
“I guess they getting ready to go out to the club. Miss Celia just changed from that nice blouse she had on and put on a top that look like a Christmas tree decoration.”
“So you think it’s safe for me to go in there?” I laughed.
“Wear some sunglasses, baby. They are sparkling in there. I’m gone,” Ms. Gladys said as she pulled her purse from under the desk and headed toward the door.
“Have a good weekend, Ms. Gladys. See you Monday.”
“You too, baby,” she said. “Be careful in there with those girls.”
As I got closer to Celia’s door, I heard laughter mixed with loud music. I
guess the party had started early. I tapped on the door and opened it at the same time. The first thing I saw was Lontray swinging her arms above her head, dancing with a low-cut top, short skirt, and body glitter accenting her cleavage. They didn’t notice me, since Celia was adjusting her makeup while facing the window.
“That’s my cut, girl. TI is crunk.”
“He is aight, but Fiddy still my man,” Celia said. “Vivica Fox is crazy for letting that go.”
“Hey, Celia, are you up for church on Sunday?” I asked.
She turned around with her lipstick still in her hand. “Let me get back to you on that. You remember my friend Lontray.”
She smiled at me.
“Yes, I do. Hello, Lontray.”
“Hey, Mr. Chauncey with your phine self.” Her grin covered her entire face. “How come you didn’t ask me to go to church with you?” she asked, still moving her head as her blond-streaked weave ponytail bounced to the beat of the rap music that played from Celia’s computer.
I started to tell her that she didn’t strike me as the churchgoing type, but I said, “Do you want to go?”
“Is it going to be like a date? And are you paying?” she said with a roll of her neck. “Church expensive now ’days. Not to mention I’d have to get my hair and nails done.”
I had to hold back my laughter. “Now, Lontray, you know I’m old enough to be your daddy,” I said. This was not the first time she’d flirted openly with me.
“That’s fine, ’cause I’m always looking for a daddy. A sugar daddy, that is. Hey, do you know any good lawyers? I’m trying to get my baby’s daddy, Marcel, to give me more child support. He working two jobs now, but he still behind with his support payments,” she complained.
“You know Chauncey don’t know nothing about no child-support lawyers,” Celia said, turning back to her reflection in the window.
“Why couldn’t I meet someone like you?” Lontray asked as she moved closer to me. When her drugstore perfume reached my nose, I stepped toward the door.
“Must be looking in the wrong places,” I said.
“Why don’t you come to the club with us?” Lontray said.
“Yeah, come on, Chauncey,” Celia encouraged. “You might meet somebody nice.”
“Meet somebody nice? I got what he needs right here,” Lontray said, her grin becoming even wider than I thought possible.
I ignored her and said to Celia, “I’m going to pass. Call me if you want me to pick you up for church.”
“I will,” Celia said.
“That bopper’s ass ain’t going to church. She gone be at the club or pushing up on that tired-ass Marvin,” Lontray said.
“Bitch, didn’t I tell your ghetto ass we don’t cuss in the office,” Celia said. “Yeah, Chauncey, I’ll go to church with you, and I’m going to bring Ms. Need Some Jesus with me,” she added, as she looked at Lontray and rolled her eyes.
I shook my head and smiled as I left the office.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“This man must have really rocked your world, Chauncey,” Skylar said.
I stirred a packet of sweetener in my glass of tea as the two of us sat in a booth at the Cheesecake Factory in the heart of Buckhead. It was a little before six, but there had still been a fifteen-minute wait at the popular restaurant, which was short considering it was Friday evening and the parking lot was packed.
While we waited for a table, I told Skylar the full story about my relationship with Damien. He already knew that he was now a minister and running for the Senate.
“I still can’t believe what he did to me,” I said as I looked at the colorful menu.
“Tell me, child. Was it a big scandal? Did he beat you?” Skylar asked, almost a little too eagerly.
“No, but he betrayed me like no one else has ever done. It still hurts to this day,” I said, remembering the day it happened as if it were just twenty-four hours before.
“Did you catch him with another man or, heaven forbid, a woman?” Skylar said as he mockingly stuck his finger in his mouth.
“No, I didn’t catch him with anyone, but someone caught us,” I said. I told Skylar how our manager, Mr. Butler, called us into his suite after one of our performances and asked us what was going on. He wanted to know why we felt the need to spend so much time together after our shows. It seemed that someone on the security team had told him that almost every morning he saw Damien or me leaving the other’s room. Before I could respond or deny the allegations, Damien spoke up. He told Mr. Butler that he was counseling me and holding prayer with me. When Mr. Butler asked for what, Damien said that he was working to rid me of my “homosexual demons.”
Skylar’s eyes were as wide as silver dollars. “No, he didn’t call you out like that!”
I nodded sadly as I relived what I had felt that day. The sadness and disappointment overwhelmed me. “I stood there stunned while Mr. Butler told me how my being gay would ruin the group if any magazines or fans found out. He commended Damien for trying to help me. And then he turned to me and asked if the prayer thing was working.”
“I hope you told him a thing or two.”
“I was too stunned to say anything. There I was standing next to the man I loved, who told me that he loved me. And he had turned his back on not only me but our relationship.”
“So you didn’t say anything?” Skylar asked.
“Not a thing. When the tears started to roll down my face, I raced out of Mr. Butler’s suite and went straight to my room. Later that day, someone slid a letter under my door. I still remember shaking as I read those words. The letter said that I was no longer a member of Reunion and, if I wanted to receive future royalties, I had to sign the attached statement stating that I would never talk about why I was leaving the group. They even had the nerve to tell me to never speak in public about Barron, Darron, or Damien.”
“I cannot believe that,” Skylar said.
I wanted to tell Skylar that to this day, I still couldn’t believe it, either. I said, “What was so amazing was that there were so many things going on in that group but nothing else seemed to matter. Barron had a fourteen-year-old girl he was sleeping with. She hung around us so much, you would have thought she was a member of the group as well.”
Skylar raised his eyebrows. “Isn’t that against the law?”
“I guess not in Illinois,” I said.
“So did Damien come back later for a little makeup love?”
I stared silently for a minute—Damien’s face and the way he looked at me that day still smoldered in my mind. It was not the look of love that I’d come to know, but one of disgust.
“He did apologize, didn’t he?” Skylar asked.
“I never saw him again,” I said sadly.
Although I didn’t know what I was going to do, I wanted Skylar’s opinion. A part of me still had feelings for Damien even after all these years, but another part felt anger at the way our relationship had ended. Now his current stance against gay people fueled my rage even more. What would his wife and his political party say if they found out about his past, about me?
“Chauncey!” Skylar yelled, breaking me out of my tea-stirring trance.
“What?” I said as I laid down the long, thin spoon alongside the pink torn packets of sweetener.
“I thought you wanted to talk about this?” Skylar said.
“I’m just wondering what I should do.”
“I think you should call a press conference right before he comes to town and tell the world in your best suit that ‘this man was my lover.’ You know, pull an Amber Frye on him,” Skylar said with a laugh. He looked around the restaurant for the waiter.
“What do you want?” I asked.
“I need something stronger than this lemonade. I don’t know what I was thinking. I need a drink. Oh, there he goes. Hey, you,” Skylar said, waving at the waiter who had taken our order.
The waiter came over and Skylar ordered not one but two glasses of wine. When I looked at him
with raised eyebrows, he leaned over and whispered, “Who are we kidding here, honey? We both know I’ll be ordering another glass. So let’s save some time.”
I just shook my head. Maybe after a couple glasses of wine Skylar might have some advice I could use. I never really thought of “outing” Damien, because that simply wasn’t my style and what purpose would it serve? I just wanted to talk to Damien so that I could understand what he was doing with his life. I wanted him to understand my life, too, and respect it.
“Have you seen all those billboards of ‘your man’ all over the city with that wife of his? I must say, he is something if you like the pretty-boy look,” Skylar said.
“What billboards?” I asked.
“They’re all up and down I-85 and, of course, all over I-20, you know, where most of your people live,” Skylar laughed.
“I guess I need to take a trip down I-20 and see,” I said.
The waiter delivered a plate of pasta for me and an appetizer portion of ribs for Skylar. The food silenced us for a few minutes.
“Well, at least you fell in love with a smart man,” Skylar said as he placed a half-eaten rib on the saucer.
“How do you know he’s smart?” I asked as I decided against another piece of garlic bread.
“Look at the career he picked. Preaching and politics are the world’s greatest hustles,” Skylar said.
“He could be serious about saving souls.”
“Yeah right, just like I’m interested in starting a long-term relationship with every man I let in my bed.”
I chuckled to myself. “Now that you know why I avoided love for all these years, tell me why you run from real love,” I said.
“Chauncey, who said I run from love? True love runs from me. You gotta chase it. But most times love is wearing track shoes, and you know I don’t like to sweat,” Skylar said, and laughed.
“Have you ever really been in love?”
“Not really,” Skylar said sadly.
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