The Last Sunday

by Terry E. Hill

  The last card seemed to levitate above the table in front of him. He reached for it, hesitated halfway, and then picked it up. He looked around the room at each person. Scarlett looked at him with a longing glare. Hattie’s eyes were closed. She still clutched the head of her cane. Percy’s eyes were closed as well.

  Samantha looked at him with the cold, narrowed eyes of a woman who was about to lose everything.

  Kenneth opened the final card and read it. He then closed his eyes and released a puff of air. “Samantha Cleaveland,” he said, dropping the card to the table. “Let the record show that Samantha Cleaveland is as of this day the permanent pastor of New Testament Cathedral. Congratulations, Pastor Cleaveland.” He then slapped the table with his open palm and added, “This meeting is adjourned.”

  Samantha stood immediately and walked over to Kenneth. She reached over his shoulder and pressed the EJECT button on the tape recorder, and the little cassette popped up.

  “I’ll take this,” she said.

  Without making eye contact with anyone there, Cynthia spun on her heels and left the room.

  The others sat in stunned silence, and then, one by one, they slowly exited the conference room. The last one to leave turned off the lights.

  In less than one hour Samantha had been installed as permanent pastor. Scarlett now sat on the couch in the living room with the phone to her ear as Cynthia pleaded her case.

  “I never said I had Hattie’s vote,” Cynthia said emphatically.

  “I assumed you already had a majority when you told me about this scheme.”

  “I thought I did, but Samantha outsmarted us.”

  “You mean, she outsmarted you. I held up my end of the deal. I voted against her. You’re the one who was supposed to have the other votes lined up.”

  “I know, and I apologize for that.”

  “I don’t need your apology. It’s too late now,” Scarlett answered.

  “That’s why I’m calling. I don’t think it’s too late.”

  “It is. She outsmarted you. Percy will never be pastor of New Testament Cathedral.”

  “It’s not too late!” Cynthia blurted. “Don’t say that.”

  “Why? There’s nothing you can do to stop her. She has the trustees following her now in lockstep. She even got Hattie’s vote. I never dreamed that would ever happen.”

  “I agree. That old lady surprised me,” Cynthia said with a hint of introspection. “I’ll never forgive her for that.”

  “The congregation loves Samantha. The world loves her,” Scarlett continued bitterly. “When the people see her this Sunday, standing in the pulpit of that glass cathedral, she will be set for life. Everyone will be eating out of her hands.”

  “I just don’t want to believe it’s over. The world has got to know just what kind of woman she is. If people only knew the secret she kept before Hezekiah died, they would see her in a different light.”

  Scarlett sat upright on the edge of the couch. “What secret?” she asked cautiously. “What are you talking about?”

  There was no need for pretense or deception at this point. Lance Savage was dead. Hezekiah was dead. Reverend Mitchell had killed himself. Percy had all but given up on the idea of being pastor. There was nothing to lose.

  “It was about Hezekiah. Samantha knew about him.”

  “What about Hezekiah?” Scarlett said, urging her on.

  “Hezekiah was having an affair with a man,” Cynthia blurted, with no regard for the impact her words would have. She sent them blindly into the phone, almost forgetting there was another person on the line. “Danny St. John is his name. Hezekiah was going to step down as pastor on the Sunday morning he was killed. Samantha knew it, and I think she stopped him before it was too late.”

  Scarlett stood to her feet as the words swirled in her head. She could not form the words to respond.

  “Hello, Scarlett. Are you still there?”

  “You’re a liar!” Scarlett shouted into the phone. “How could you say a horrible thing like that?”

  “Because it’s true.”

  “It’s not true. It’s impossible. Hezekiah loved women, and he loved . . .” Scarlett stopped.

  “No one doubts that he loved women. But that didn’t stop him from also loving men. At least Danny St. John.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “I printed hundreds of e-mails from his office computer,” Cynthia replied confidently. “I’ll show them to you if you don’t believe me.”

  Within an hour Cynthia was standing in Scarlett’s living room. Scarlett hadn’t sat down since she hung up the telephone. She had managed to stop the room from spinning when the doorbell rang.

  “Here they are, Scarlett,” Cynthia said, handing her an unmarked envelope. “It’s all there. Read it for yourself.”

  Scarlett snatched the envelope from Cynthia and frantically removed the small stack of papers.

  “That’s only a sample of the e-mails between them,” Cynthia said.

  Cynthia studied Scarlett as she read each page. She could see her hand trembling and then the tears flowing. Scarlett tried to contain her sobs as she leafed through the irrefutable evidence.

  She read the inflammatory text of e-mail number seven.

  I love you, Danny. I love you more than I have ever loved anyone in my life. I want to hold you when you are not here. I want to hear your voice call my name when we make love. You are everything to me.

  Scarlett dropped the page to the floor, where it landed on top of the first six pages. Then she read e-mail number thirteen.

  I’ve never seen that look in her eye before. She looked like she could kill me.

  Seventeen minutes later the entire contents of the envelope lay at Scarlett’s feet. She was numb after reading the last e-mail. Her eyes were glazed as she stared blankly into the fireplace.

  “Disgusting, isn’t it? Are you okay, honey?” Cynthia asked. ”You don’t look so good.”

  Scarlett did not respond. The words from the scattered sheets of paper swirled in her head, forming a vortex of pain and betrayal. “This can’t be true,” she said to no one. “This just can’t be true.”

  “I’m sorry, but it is,” Cynthia said coldly. “He was gay, and Samantha knew all about it. The evidence is right there at your feet.”

  At that moment Cynthia saw Scarlett for the first time since she had entered the house. She saw a trembling woman whose reaction to the news far exceeded that of a disappointed parishioner. It looked more like . . .

  “Oh my God,” Cynthia said, staring at the trembling woman. “You were in love with him.”

  Scarlett let out an anguished cry when she heard the words. Her fists repeatedly pounded the cushions on the couch. “No, no, no!” she yelled over and over again.

  Cynthia’s eyes were wide open as she looked on in astonishment. She watched as the beautiful woman shuddered and wilted into a trembling puddle on the couch. Cynthia rushed to her side and placed her arms around her. “Honey, I’m sorry. I had no idea how you felt. It’s okay. I’m so sorry.”

  Cynthia looked up at the picture of the little girl that was sitting on the fireplace mantelpiece as she held the crying woman in her arms. She immediately saw Hezekiah’s crystal-clear eyes looking back at her. Cynthia slapped her hand over her gaping mouth, her arms still wrapped around Scarlett. It was all clear now. She understood the source of the grief and pain in her arms.

  “He was her father,” she whispered through her clenched fingers into Scarlett’s ear. “Hezekiah was your lover.” Cynthia continued without waiting for a response. “The bastard. How could he have done this to you?”

  “I loved him,” Scarlett sobbed into the arms that held her. They were anonymous arms. She couldn’t even recall whom they belonged to. She knew only that they were the anchors that held her to the ground. Without them she feared she would float away into oblivion.

  Cynthia’s mind returned to her original mission after the initial shock subsided. “Does
Samantha know?” Cynthia asked shrewdly.

  “Yes,” Scarlett answered. “She knew everything at the time. She wanted me to have an abortion. But I couldn’t. I just couldn’t do it. That’s my little girl. I love her. I know Hezekiah loved her too. I just know he did.”

  “I’m sure he did, honey,” Cynthia replied. “In his own way.”

  Scarlett jerked out of her arms. “Not ‘in his own way,’” she sneered. “He did love her.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way,” Cynthia said apologetically. “I know he must have loved her very much. How could he not? She’s beautiful.”

  Scarlett stood and walked over to the fireplace. She took down the framed photograph and gently touched the glass. “She looks like him. She even sounds like him.”

  “You can’t let Samantha get away with this,” Cynthia said, walking over to her and placing a hand on her shoulder.

  “There’s nothing I can do. It’s over. He’s gone.”

  “Of course there’s something you can do. You can make sure she suffers. She made you suffer. Now it’s time for her to pay for it.”

  “I don’t care anymore,” Scarlett said, pulling away. “God forgive me, but I think we would all be better off if she were dead.”

  “Do you really mean that?” Cynthia asked softly.

  “Mean what?”

  “That we’d be better off if she were dead.”

  “I don’t know what I mean anymore,” Scarlett said, wiping the tears from her eyes. “I’m just so tired. I don’t have the energy to fight anymore.”

  “I know you’re tired, honey, but you’re not alone anymore. I’m here. We can stop her together.”

  “Why do you care so much? This has nothing to do with you.”

  “But it does. My husband served under them for years, and he lied to us. I feel betrayed. She is not fit to serve as pastor.”

  “Oh, right. How could I have forgotten? You want Percy to be pastor. This is about you.”

  “No, it’s about doing what’s right. It’s about correcting the mistake that was made when she was installed as pastor. It’s about exposing the lies they told us and the world all these years. She is evil, and we have to stop her.”

  “But how?”

  Cynthia slowly walked to the sliding glass door and looked out onto the yard. The lawn sprinklers were showering the perfectly green grass with water. A hummingbird hovered over a rosebush, then quickly darted between the buds before whizzing off over the redwood fence into the next yard.

  “I’ve thought of so many different ways to deal with her, but I’m afraid there’s only one that will really work.”

  Scarlett took a hopeful step toward her and asked, “What is that?”

  “It has to be irreversible. It has to be quick, and it has to be permanent.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I think you know exactly what I’m saying. It has to be something that she can’t recover from. It has to be lethal.”

  Scarlett looked at her with a puzzled expression. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

  “I’ve tried everything else, and nothing has worked,” Cynthia explained. “I tried exposing the homosexual affair, and that failed. I tried securing the votes on the board of trustees, and that didn’t work. This is the only option left.”

  “I can’t believe you’re saying this,” Scarlett said. “She’s evil, but no one deserves to be . . .”

  “I think she does, and deep down inside, I believe you do too.”

  “You’re not God, Cynthia. Only God can decide who lives and who dies.”

  “I agree. But don’t you believe God uses man to execute His divine plan? How do you know this isn’t God’s plan and that we’re not a part of it?”

  “Because God would never ask us to do anything that horrible.”

  “That’s not true. God does call on believers to make painful sacrifices on His behalf. Look at Abraham and Isaac.”

  “This is crazy, and I don’t want to discuss it anymore,” Scarlett said, turning away. “And you should put the thought out of your head as well. It’s wrong, and you know it.”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t think it’s wrong. What they did to you is wrong. What Hezekiah did with that man is wrong. What they did to my husband is wrong. This is justice. Pure and simple.”

  “Who made you the arbitrator of justice? You are not God,” Scarlett said, putting emphasis on each word.

  The two women stood on opposite sides of the room with their eyes locked. After a few moments of tense silence, Cynthia took a deep breath and said, “You’re right. I don’t know what I was thinking. Please forget I ever brought this up. I’m sorry. Just the thought of her makes me a little crazy.”

  Scarlett walked over to Cynthia and placed her arms around her. “I understand,” Scarlett said, holding her close. “She has the same effect on me.”

  The pounding bass of Kanye West’s latest release made the floor vibrate as dancers humped, gyrated, and twirled in the frantic glow of pulsing spotlights. The hottest new nightclub on the Sunset Strip was filled to overflowing with what appeared to be all of Los Angeles’s young, rich, somewhat notorious, and shameless wannabes. Bottles of Cristal and Dom Pérignon flowed from the bar up to the mezzanine, to the private booths occupied by the richest and most infamous of the crowd and their hangers-on.

  Jasmine Cleaveland sat at the center of one of the booths, which was crammed with a gaggle of partying girls as beautiful as she was and with men who were as pretty as the women. The fourth bottle of Cristal on Jasmine’s tab was delivered to the table. Powdered cocaine, Ecstasy, and an assortment of synthetic designer drugs were passed between the members of her party and consumed freely.

  It was just after 2:00 a.m., and the club was in full swing. Jasmine slurred her words and dribbled her sixth glass of champagne as she laughed and hung her body from one of the male occupants of the booth.

  “I’m bored with this place,” she said, slurring. “I’m tired of looking at all these wannabes. Let’s go somewhere quiet.”

  “No problem, baby,” said the young man, whose name she did not know. “Let’s go to my place. It’s quiet there, and I’ve got some chronic dat’s da bomb.”

  As the two stumbled from the booth, Jasmine threw an exaggerated kiss to her entourage and said over the pounding music, “Later, bitches.”

  Jasmine braced herself against the young man as they descended the club stairs and maneuvered through the frenetic crowd. They bumped and scooted their way to the exit and finally made it out into the early morning air. She could barely stand on her own and required the shoulder and arms of the man who was desperate to direct her to his waiting vehicle.

  Gideon sat in his car across the street from the club entrance and saw Jasmine as she exited the club. He had followed her from the Cleaveland estate earlier that afternoon. He had spent the afternoon and evening watching her from a distance. First on Rodeo Drive, where she loaded Gucci bags and other shopping bags into her convertible BMW. Then at dinner with a young girlfriend at a trendy restaurant in Santa Monica. Next was a small bungalow in West Hollywood, where, judging from the steady stream of traffic at the door, he assumed she bought drugs. That was followed by a string of bars in Beverly Hills and Hollywood and finally the club on Sunset Boulevard.

  Gideon had wanted to talk to her for weeks, but he hadn’t figured out how to get past the gauntlet of secretaries, assistants, and body guards that typically surrounded her. He was determined this evening to approach her but was waiting for just the right moment.

  As Jasmine exited the club in the arms of an exceptionally large man, who appeared to be in his mid-thirties, Gideon could see she was intoxicated and was having trouble walking on her own. The two stumbled together down a side street and into a residential neighborhood, where he lost sight of them. Gideon quickly exited his car and dashed across Sunset, darting through a parade of cars filled with young people still cruising the boulevard.

&nb
sp; When he reached the corner, he saw the red security lights of an SUV flashing halfway down the block. He then saw the man lean Jasmine against the vehicle as he fumbled to open the door.

  “Jasmine!” Gideon called out, without even thinking what his next words would be. “Jasmine, wait!” he called again, sprinting toward the couple.

  The man looked over his shoulder as Gideon approached.

  “Are you all right, Jasmine?” Gideon asked when he reached them, motivated by paternal instincts that he had had no idea he had. “I think you should let me take you home.”

  “Hold up, man,” her companion said, placing a firm hand on Gideon’s shoulder. “Who the fuck are you? The young lady is with me.”

  Gideon ignored the man and spoke directly to Jasmine. “Jasmine, let me take you home. You’re in no condition to be out alone.”

  “She’s not alone, OG. She’s with me,” the man said in a more aggressive tone. “You need to take your old ass home to bed before you get hurt.”

  Almost lifeless, Jasmine was now slumped against the car, oblivious to the scene developing next to her. The street was dark and deserted except for occasional clubbers making their way to their cars.

  Again, Gideon ignored the increasingly agitated man. “Come with me, Jasmine. I’m taking you home.” Gideon reached for her arm and was stopped short by the firm grip of the man, who was now standing between them.

  “Take your fucking hands off her,” the man said, pushing Gideon backward. “You better step the fuck off.”

  Gideon stepped aggressively toward the man and placed his hand in his jacket pocket, hoping the gesture would cause the man to pause. But it did not. The man quickly pulled Gideon’s hand from his pocket and raised his clenched fist toward Gideon’s face. At that instant a car drove past and flashed headlights directly into Gideon’s face. For the first time the man could see who he was talking to, and froze mid-swing.

  “Oh, fuck,” the man said. “You dat nigga from the news. Gideon . . . Gideon Truman.”