The Last Sunday

by Terry E. Hill

  “Could you tell us how your daughter is doing? This must have been devastating for her.”

  “That was the most painful part of this entire ordeal. My daughter means the world to me, and the sun rose and set in her father’s eyes. She was definitely Daddy’s little girl. She is doing much better. She’s back in school, and we’re surrounding her with love, support, and prayers.”

  “Tell us a little bit about you, Pastor Cleaveland. I think many of our viewers know what you are, but they don’t know who you are, if that makes any sense to you. What is it in you that has kept you going all these years in a field that I’m sure has many difficult moments?”

  “There’s not much to tell, Jonathan. I’m your average PK who was raised in the church. The church has been a part of my entire life. My father was a pastor, and his father was a pastor. From the moment I laid eyes on Hezekiah, I could see the spirit of God around him, and I knew immediately that he was going to be my husband. From then on, we dedicated our entire lives to the ministry, and now, without him, I promised God and myself that I would continue and not give up the fight.”

  “That’s all well and good, but what is it that motivates you? I mean, what makes you get up in the morning and think, I’m going to dedicate my life to others, put myself second and other people’s needs first?’”

  “I love people, Jonathan, and I made a promise to myself to make sure that everyone I encounter feels the love of God through me. Our hands are God’s hands. Our voice is God’s voice. I deeply believe that everyone is put on this earth for a reason, and I want to see everyone live life to the fullest and absolutely reach their potential. That’s the fundamental message of God, and that is the foundation of this ministry.”

  “What do you say to the critics who accuse you of spending millions of dollars to build a shrine to yourself?” he asked bluntly.

  “If they only knew the sacrifices I’ve made in my life, they would never make such accusations,” she scoffed. “I have never benefited financially from this ministry. The donations that come in go directly into spreading the love of God to a world so desperately in need of it. I have dedicated my life to helping others and have even sacrificed loved ones to keep this ministry alive and to grow it into what it is today.”

  Samantha could see the glow of admiration slowly resurfacing in the host’s countenance. It was undeniable that Jonathan was back in the Samantha fan club after her last passionate sermonette. Probably has a hard-on under the desk, she thought as he reached across the acrylic divide and caressed her hand.

  “Well, Pastor Cleaveland, you are an amazing woman, and I feel like a better person just being in your presence. Thank you so much for taking the time to speak with us during what I am sure is a busy week for you.”

  “It’s been my pleasure,” Samantha responded, covering his clammy hand with hers. “Thank you so much for having me.”

  White boxes of vegetarian chow mein, hot and sour soup, fried prawns, and barbecued pork sat in the center of the dining room table, along with wooden chopsticks, little packets of soy sauce, and two tightly wrapped cellophane bundles of fortune cookies, hot mustard, and cheap paper napkins. Cynthia and Percy sat silently eating, only occasionally asking the other, “Could you please pass the chow mein?” or “Is there any more shrimp?”

  Cynthia hadn’t cooked a meal in their kitchen in over two months. All her energy had been consumed by plotting to remove Samantha from her lofty throne. Plan after plan had been intricately devised, including blackmail, anonymous death threats, lobbying each member of the board of trustees to change their vote, and a smear campaign designed to tarnish the Cleavelands’ reputation to the point that not even Samantha could recover.

  Each plan had required countless days to work out the fine details and only moments for Cynthia to discard for being either too risky, too easy for Samantha to recover from, or too likely to backfire in her own face. Now, sitting at the table across from Percy, Cynthia had no viable scheme for removing Samantha from the helm of New Testament Cathedral.

  She shifted strands of noodles from one side of her plate to the other with her splintered disposable chopsticks, sipped Pellegrino, dabbed her lips with a paper napkin, and occasionally took a bite of the tasteless Americanized Chinese takeout.

  “How was your day?” Percy finally asked to break the deafening divide.

  There was no response.

  “Cynthia, honey, how was your day?” he repeated.

  “It was fine,” came her simple, yet polite, reply.

  “What did you do?”

  Cynthia laid her chopsticks on the table and resigned herself to the fact that she had to have polite dinner conversation with her unambitious husband.

  “I had a hair appointment this morning. After that I went shopping and bought a few things. Then lunch with my sister. Came home, ordered Chinese, and now I’m here with you. Is that enough detail for you?”

  “I don’t want to argue, Cynthia. I was only trying to be polite.”

  “I know, darling,” she replied apologetically. “I’m sorry. I just have a lot on my mind. How was your day?”

  Percy reached across the table and gently touched her arm. “No need to apologize. Things are crazy this week at church. I’ve already given five VIP tours of the grounds. I’ve lost track of how many interviews I’ve done. Today Samantha and I had lunch with the mayor, and tomorrow the governor is flying down for a personal tour. I think you may be wrong about Samantha, honey. So far I think she’s doing a very good job. Did you see her on Jonathan Moran’s show? She had him eating out of the palm of her hand.”

  Percy babbled on, oblivious to the steam that was rising just across the table from him. Cynthia tried her best to control her anger.

  “Samantha has her flaws. Don’t we all? But one thing you have to admit is that she knows how to raise money. Because of all the coverage she’s been getting, donations this week alone have broken every record. We got a check for half a million dollars today from a venture capitalist in Silicon Valley, and another from Texas for a quarter of a million. Both of them said they saw her on Moran’s show and felt compelled by God to send her money. That woman could get water from a rock if she was thirsty enough.”

  This last spewing of praise was enough to make Cynthia jump to her feet. “Shut up!” she shouted. “You fool, please shut up!” As she yelled the words, Cynthia swept her arm across the table, sending boxes of tepid food, utensils, plates, and glasses slamming against the dining room window. “Would you please stop ranting about how great that woman is? You’re making a complete fool of yourself. She’s making fools of everyone around her, and I will not allow her to make a fool of you as well. Stop kissing her ass. Can’t you for once stand up for yourself and be a man?”

  “And just what do you suggest that I do?” Percy asked calmly. “She’s our pastor, and we have to support her.”

  “She’s your pastor. That woman is not my pastor. You should be pastor, and I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure that happens.”

  “Damn it, Cynthia,” he said, pounding his fist on the table. “You’ve been saying that for months now, and I’m sick of it. How do you propose to make that happen? It’s over. She’s the pastor, and that’s final.”

  “It’s not final. I wouldn’t be surprised if she had Hezekiah killed just so she could become pastor. Did you ever think of that?” she asked smugly. “She probably paid someone to kill him. I wouldn’t put anything past her.”

  “Now you’re just being ridiculous.”

  “Am I? Think about it, Percy. Who is the only person in the world who stood to gain anything from his death? Her! And who would have lost the most if that story about him being gay had ever come out? Her! And do you think it was a coincidence that he just happened to get killed the day before the story was scheduled to run? I don’t! If you hadn’t accidentally killed that reporter, I can almost guarantee you that she would have.”

  As Cynthia spoke, the words came
to her like an epiphany. Words born from anger, frustration, and hate somehow had a surprising air of truth to her. Percy did not allow his face to show it, but the words held a grain of possibility for him as well.

  “That’s just crazy,” he said, trying to convince her and also himself. “Samantha would never do anything like that. She loved Hezekiah.”

  “You know as well as I do, Percy, that Samantha loves only three things. Herself, money, and the spotlight.”

  Again, the words smacked of the truth. Percy found it more and more difficult to deny their veracity.

  Chow mein noodles slid down the window, leaving slimy trails, as they spoke. The fried shrimp and barbecued pork lay on the carpet like spent shells on a scorched battlefield. The city lights in the distance slowly began to blink on one by one as the evening sun set on the horizon.

  Cynthia continued. “You at least have to admit that even if she did love him, which I seriously doubt, she has always craved the spotlight. You know she resented being in his shadow. That’s why she’s treated everyone around her like dirt. Over the years you’ve had to have noticed how she found it harder and harder to contain her contempt. It was inevitable that one day her anger would reach a boiling point and someone would be hurt. And I think that someone was Hezekiah.”

  Percy found it impossible to counter the argument in the face of Cynthia’s surprising clarity. It couldn’t be proved, but there was almost an undeniable logic to her reasoning. Samantha was the only person who gained from his death. Samantha would have suffered the most if he were exposed as a homosexual, and Hezekiah had confided to him that he was thinking about leaving the church. I wonder if he told Samantha? he thought as Cynthia continued with her stream of logic.

  While she spoke, Percy recalled the conversation he had had with Hezekiah shortly before he died.

  “What’s going on with you, Hezekiah?” Percy had asked as the two men stood naked under the steaming shower after a workout at the gym.

  “What do you mean? I’ve never been in better shape.”

  “We’ve worked together for years now,” Percy had said, pressing. “Not only are you my pastor, but you’re also my friend, and I’d like to think you feel the same. I know when something is troubling you. Why did you tell the board of trustees to start thinking about your replacement? What’s going on?”

  “I can’t talk about it right now, but I’m not sure if I’ll be able to continue as pastor for much longer.”

  Percy stood naked and shocked before the pastor. “Are you sick?”

  Hezekiah turned his back to Percy and continued to soap his body. He was not prepared to have the conversation. “No, it’s nothing like that. I’m fine. I’ll be honest with you, Percy. I’m struggling with a moral dilemma that I don’t think I’ll ever be able to resolve.”

  “Hezekiah, nothing could be that bad. Maybe you should talk about it with someone. Have you considered seeing a therapist? I know several ministers who are seeing a guy in Anaheim who’s supposed to be excellent.”

  Hezekiah had never confided in a therapist, although he had made the recommendation to many members whose problems required more time than he was willing or able to give. “I don’t think he could help me with this,” Hezekiah said with a resolute expression on his face. “Everything is more complicated than you could ever imagine.”

  “No problem you could have is too complicated for God. Let me get you the therapist’s number. Give him a call. Whatever is going on might not be as bad as you think.”

  “Okay, Percy. I’ll call him. But if I do leave, I want you to take over as pastor. You’re a good man, and you’re the only person I would trust with New Testament.”

  “Don’t even think in those terms yet, Hezekiah. You know I’m honored, but I pray it doesn’t come to that.”

  The two men had then showered in silence to the sound of water echoing through the tiled room.

  “Percy, are you listening to me?” Cynthia said, interrupting his recollection of that day in the shower with Hezekiah. “You have to admit what I’m saying is true.”

  Percy stood from the table and began to pick up the dinner from the floor. He methodically plopped sticky noodles and shrimp covered in lint onto a plate he retrieved from near the window.

  “You’re not responding, because you know what I’m saying is true,” she asserted. “Why haven’t the police been able to find any leads? It’s because they’re looking in the wrong place. She’s fooled them, like she’s fooled everyone else.”

  Another strand of logic assaulted his ears.

  “She didn’t pull the trigger, but I know she had something to do with it. And what about Reverend Willie Mitchell? Have you even thought his suicide may have some connection to all of this? It can’t be a coincidence that he killed himself right after Hezekiah was assassinated. You know he would have done anything for Samantha. Even kill someone.”

  “Reverend Mitchell was in the sanctuary when Hezekiah was killed.” Percy was relieved to find a hole in her logic. “There’s no way he could have done it.”

  “I’m not saying he did it. But he certainly knew enough of the type of people who would have done it.”

  It was true. Willie Mitchell loved Samantha and would do her bidding, if only for the honor of being in her presence and inhaling the air that had once been in her lungs. His hate for Hezekiah was matched only by his love for Samantha.

  “The police haven’t even thought to link Reverend Mitchell’s death with Hezekiah’s,” Cynthia said. She was relentless. “And you more than anyone has to know that if Lance Savage had lived and that story had run, the board of trustees would have sent Samantha packing. You unwittingly did her a favor by killing him.”

  Stooped over a pile of noodles on the floor, Percy froze when he heard those words. “Don’t be cruel, Cynthia,” he said, standing and facing her. “I told you it was an accident. I didn’t mean to kill him, and I certainly didn’t do it for Samantha.”

  “I know it was,” she said gently. “And I know you didn’t do it for her. I’m just saying that there are way too many coincidences, and Samantha seems to be the sole beneficiary of them all. Every road leads to her doorstep, and I think it’s about time someone put up a few roadblocks to stop her before she hurts anyone else.”

  Percy placed the plate of soiled food on the table and slowly walked to the window. Night had fallen during the course of their exchange, and the city was now a bed of sparkling lights laid out before him.

  From his silence, Cynthia knew she had broken through his barrier of denial. She knew he could not deny the soundness of her deductions. She allowed him the necessary moments to join in her conclusions before she spoke.

  Percy stared off into the distance. Could she be right? he thought. Did Samantha kill Hezekiah? Why did Reverend Mitchell kill himself? Did Samantha drive him to suicide?

  The questions seemed unending. But he grudgingly conceded that Cynthia was correct. All roads did seem to lead directly to Samantha.

  “You know I’m right, don’t you, Percy?” she finally said calmly.

  “I don’t know any such thing,” Percy said with his back to her, to hide the doubt on his face. “Even if you are, there’s absolutely no way to prove it. There’s nothing that can be done.”

  “We could talk to the police,” Cynthia said patiently.

  Percy turned sharply. “We can’t talk to the police. Remember I killed a man, Cynthia. I can’t risk getting myself wrapped up in this. One slip of the tongue and I could spend the rest of my life in jail.”

  “That’s true,” she conceded. “Then what can we do? We can’t just let her get away with it. There has to be justice.”

  “Don’t bother pretending to take the high road, Cynthia,” he said curtly. “This has nothing to do with justice for you. It’s all about making me pastor and you first lady.”

  “Okay, I won’t deny it, and I’m not ashamed of it, either. I still believe you will make a much better pastor than her. If just
ice is served in the process, all the better.”

  Percy began to pace in front of the window. He nervously rubbed his forehead as the full weight of Cynthia’s accusations settled on his chest.

  Cynthia watched him intently as he avoided her gaze. “Regardless of the motivation, the question remains the same,” she asserted. “What are we going to do about it?”

  “There’s nothing that can be done. Our hands are tied,” he said, facing her. “If what you said is true, and I’m not saying I think it is, but if it’s true, then she will most likely get away with murder.”

  “Your hands may be tied, but mine aren’t.”

  “What do you mean by that?” he asked nervously.

  “I mean that I have nothing to hide. I didn’t kill anyone. I’ve done nothing wrong. I can do whatever I feel is necessary to deal with her.”

  “You’re in no position to take the moral high ground,” he said snidely. “Lance Savage told me how you had sex with him in a car just to get him to run the story.”

  The words had the same effect as a punch in her face. She staggered slightly from their impact. So much had already been exposed that she dismissed the need to deny the allegations. “Yes, I slept with him, and I’d sleep with him again,” she said defiantly. “Don’t you see, baby? I did it for you.”

  “You did it for yourself,” he scoffed. “You were willing to sell your body to be first lady.”

  His words didn’t sting anymore. “I was willing to sell my body to make you pastor,” she said.

  “Well, whatever the reason, it certainly backfired. Didn’t it?”

  “Only a slight setback.”

  “You think three dead men is ‘only a slight setback’?”

  “Yes. Collateral damage. I’m not happy about it, but it was obviously God’s will.”

  “I find it hard to believe God had anything to do with this.”

  “Now you are being ridiculous. ‘All things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose.’ Don’t you see it, baby? You’ve been called by God to be the pastor of New Testament Cathedral.”