Soon After

by Sherryle Kiser Jackson

  “Is this off the record?” Vanessa questioned.

  “I guess this is as good a time as any to begin,” Alexis said in her on-air voice as she took out her voice recorder. “The initial interview that we do today helps me develop angles for the story or stories. Then we arrange a date for you to meet with the camera crew.”

  The switch Vanessa noticed in Alexis’s speech and demeanor that subtly put Vanessa on the defensive again. “Until we are sure what angle you are going to take, we will have a Public Relations-slash-Media Ministry at our church to handle our public persona with the press.”

  “We have a Public Relations Ministry?” Willie asked.

  “Yes, we do, honey,” Vanessa said as if to jar his memory. Her look demanded he keep up or at least pretend to. “It’s headed by Brother Mike Pearson who was some sort of entertainment lawyer turned PR person.”

  “As you can see, my wife’s a little skeptical,” Willie announced as if it weren’t apparent.

  “I sure am. I saw how the news sensationalized a story just last week about Pastor Kennedy’s church. Someone fell out during service, now they are calling to question the certification of the Nurses’ Unit.”

  “I can assure you, Pastor Vanessa, that’s not my aim. It’s my hope to get a substantial amount of history on the church before the fire. Many in the community say the church was like a beacon when your husband was pastor. Maybe follow-up on what Pastor Willie is doing in Ministry now, and of course, you’re a big part of that too.”

  “See, Vanessa, a simple history,” Willie said. “Satisfied?”

  Willie’s head was obviously growing. He was being pleasant and patronizing at the same time. She hoped that wasn’t his signal for her to leave well enough alone because she couldn’t. She remembered her mother knew that signal. She would slave in the kitchen to prepare a five course meal for her daddy and visitors he would invite over to dinner, only to abruptly uproot herself and the children into the cramped kitchen when the conversation had turned inappropriate or business needed to be conducted. She never remembered her father asking them to leave; her mom just knew. Vanessa wasn’t built with that kind of navigation system.

  Lord, I promised you I would not show out, Vanessa thought.

  “Unless you’re planning on taping and showing a service in its entirety, I don’t want any cameras in our church,” Vanessa said to them both.

  “I’m sorry to hear that, because I think it’s important to show Pastor Willie in that context. In a world of sound bites, staging is just as important,” Alexis said.

  “How’s this for sound bites and staging? In Pastor Kennedy’s church they zeroed in on the ‘Jesus Saves’ sign, and then led into the story by saying something like, it was too bad there was no one to save the lady who had a medical emergency there.”

  “That’s awful,” was all Willie could say.

  Even Alexis was speechless for a while. “That was irresponsible and unethical journalism,” she finally said.

  “You bet it was,” Vanessa agreed.

  “If I may, I think you’re being a little hasty in your decision about the story that I am working on based on what you’ve seen.” Alexis leaned in toward Vanessa to make her plea.

  “And, I think you’re not telling us everything. I’m sorry, but I don’t believe for a minute that you haven’t thought about how you’d like to cover this story.”

  “Vanessa,” Willie pleaded.

  “It’s okay. She’s right. I do have an angle in mind.” Alexis paused as if she were thinking about which one to pitch. “I want to find out who has an interest in Harvest Baptist Church and who has an impact on its future.”

  “You’ve got the wrong people.” Vanessa was quick to reply. She looked to her husband and wondered why he wasn’t jumping in. “Neither of those applies to us. I believe in staying in my lane, Ms. Montgomery. Our lane exits at the Pleasant Harvest Baptist Church. Shoot, this sounds like a straight up suitcase, like Daddy used to call it—lawsuits and court cases. Are you working in conjunction with the police on this?”

  “Journalistic Code of Ethics requires that we act independently to bring the truth. My only obligation is to my Channel 7 viewing audience.”

  “Uh-huh,” Vanessa uttered.

  They were at a stalemate. They retreated to their opposite corners to regroup. The automatic function on Alexis’s voice recorder clicked off, rattling her, and causing her to knock her spoon to the floor. She immediately bent down to retrieve it. Both Willie and Vanessa jumped up as if to shield her from bumping her head yet again. They sat down gingerly when they were certain her head had cleared the edge.

  “Look, I’m not trying to be difficult. I just don’t want the integrity of God’s church to be discussed in the court of public opinion; that’s all. You can understand that,” Vanessa said.

  “This case has been ruled an arson,” Alexis said as if she were running out of steam. “The news magazine I am attempting to report for is investigative in nature, so I am trying to figure out the truth about this fire, as I am sure we all are. It’s the first time that I am attempting to cover something like this.”

  Vanessa sat stunned.

  “Wait, did you say arson? Willie asked.

  “I did the initial report,” Alexis droned on. “I kept good notes. Then my sources confirmed the arson, and I have scarcely a day to break the story. The eggs sort of fell in my basket, and I am attempting to make an omelet. I need you to help me make the omelet. Please.”

  “Arson?” Willie asked again with a faraway look in his eyes that told Vanessa he was off in his own thoughts. “Do you mean someone purposely burnt down the church?”

  “Other reporters will run the footage of whatever is out there on this story. Both print and broadcast journalists will be calling with their own inquiries. Some with no journalistic ethics like you talked about before. Some will have no desire to tell the whole truth or paint the entire picture. I have a unique vehicle like the Inside 7 segment to do that. Either you tell your story upfront or defend yourself later. With me, you can affect the way you are represented in the press. Pastor Vanessa, if not me, then who? Who would you prefer Pastor Willie talk to?”

  She was good, Vanessa thought. Willie returned from La La Land and back to the conversation with a heavy sigh. He leaned forward, elbows up on the table to use praying hands to shield his face, and then wipe it. Vanessa looked into his eyes and read his intense expression. She felt the signal. She had said her peace. As she began to clear the table she knew her compassionate husband would share his story and trust this young lady with what he held sacred—the truth.

  Vanessa cleared the table of their dishes in two trips. She didn’t butt in or comment. She was busy thinking that their PR person must have a friend still practicing law that they could put on retainer.

  Chapter 4

  The Preacher’s New Robe

  Abe looked at his reflection in his dresser mirror as he toyed with imaginary cufflinks. He hunched his shoulders to shift his imaginary suit jacket and delicately tapped the lapel right over his heart to emphasize the sincerity of the point he just finished reciting.

  “That’s why I’m asking you to plant a seed into this ministry so that uncommon favor will flourish in your life,” said a voice that came from just over his shoulder.

  “Plant a seed and uncommon favor will flourish in your life,” he parroted.

  Abe watched a veteran televangelist through the reflection in his mirror. The man, known as much for his fancy clothes as his fancy rhetoric, had abandoned the Bible and pulpit altogether. He unbuttoned his suit jacket to place one hand in his pants pocket and point with the other. “This is your now moment. Get ready, prosperity is on its way.”

  “I know it may not seem like it, but prosperity is on its way. This is your moment,” Abe embellished.

  Abe knew the man had concluded his sermon and that the remaining ten minutes of the program would be used to solicit seed offerings and gifts into the
televangelist’s ministry. This wasn’t worth the tape to record it, he thought. He was not going to pull out a sixty-minute sermon from this broadcast.

  “Give Him His due, give Him your best. Give the Lord the first fruits of your increase. If the truth be told, you should be giving to the Lord even before you give to your landlord,” the country preacher continued.

  Oh that’s good, Abe thought as he sat down on the corner of his bed to scribble the quote verbatim into his tablet.

  Abe alternated between two remotes to halt the VHS tape and set the television back for regular viewing. His entertainment center was packed tight with audio and video tapes, DVD’s, and several decades’ worth of electronic equipment. He still put to good use his top loading Beta-Max machine, transistor and CB radios. A twelve-inch screen set inside a 62-inch floor model TV panel served as a coffee table of sorts piled with books. His home was his museum. These were his relics, and he was both curator and guest.

  Despite the new sign out in front of his building that claimed luxury condo and studio rentals available, Abe lived in an efficiency. His was a spacious corner unit. He was awakened every morning by a crew of workers erecting dry wall partitions in other units to bring truth to their advertising. To Abe, they were all still efficiencies made suitable for the new chic and trendy district residents.

  Abe stumbled upon this space in the now diverse neighborhood when he went back to school after leaving the ministry the first time. At the time he didn’t believe his calling had been a mistake, but falling in bed with a married woman from his Sunday School class had. After being dismissed from his ministerial duties at Philippians Baptist Church for his impropriety, he took a two year sabbatical from the Lord and the Lord’s work and became a student of life. At forty-five, he found himself taking as many non-credit courses as he could stand, trying to pick up a new cause. During the day he shelled out cash for desperation at one of the original pawn shops his parents owned and he operated, which became the source of his junk collection.

  So when his Uncle Charley called him with the proposition to lead a small congregation that had recently been abandoned by their former pastor, he heard choruses of, ‘you can do it.’ It gave him a reason to come out of hiding. He wanted to be restored. He just didn’t know how. He took over the pastorate of the Harvest Baptist Church for three months. There he had a transient congregation that was often off to the next religious experience before he got to know their names and/ or their needs. Every Sunday there were more new faces and less of the familiar. Faces oddly like the patrons he serviced at Capitol Town Pawn; grim, shamefaced, and conflicted. Ones he could tell had traded all that was precious for life’s addictions. They showed up at Harvest on Sunday mornings pleading for their souls back. Try as he might, he wasn’t helping them. He couldn’t.

  Abe was having a hard time hearing God’s voice. He felt sure that it was because he had forsaken God, so now God was forsaking him. The spring that once flowed with God’s anointing had dried up and no longer flourished in his life. So he trusted his Uncle Charley, a man that he had always viewed as a servant of God, to be his guiding light back to the fold. And he obliged Mother Shempy who didn’t want to have to take the city bus to find another church outside her community, and Greg Johnson, the chief musician, who depended on what they paid him to play the rusty organ as a supplement to his income. They sang in his chorus even when the, ‘you can do it,’ sounded more like, ‘you have nothing better to do.’ Abe wanted to keep the lifeline going for these people. He wanted the consigners that visited Harvest from week to week to get back a portion, if not all of what they had lost in the world. He wanted nothing more than to be an honor guard for the Lord, but he felt more like a ringleader in the biggest charade imaginable.

  Attendance that had been steadily declining had reached an all time low by Easter Sunday morning, a day when sinners of every variety usually came out of the woodwork looking for redemption. The church catching fire on the holiest of all holy days was all the sign he needed. The gig was up. He was both thankful and relieved.

  Then he got two phone calls this week. One was from his uncle telling him that the daycare owner across the street from the church was willing to open her doors to his members to hold service in the interim. The other call came from a reporter that wanted to chronicle the resurrection of the Harvest Baptist Church from the ashes.

  I could be that televangelist with the flashy suit, Abe thought, or better yet, I could wear my new robe. He stared at the garment hanging in a clear plastic bag just outside the closet door. It was another community donation from the local drycleaner. The friendly Asian man had seen the broadcast about the church fire and was looking to clear inventory that hadn’t been picked up, while being charitable in the process.

  Abe peeled back the covering and tried on the garment for the first time. It was like nothing he had ever seen before with its flowing ivory satin fabric, and a staunch gold collar with a deep crimson cross in the center of the front and back panel. He was a man of average height, but the robe was obviously made for someone much taller. Abe had to shrug his shoulders to shift the extra material to the back, which created a train behind him as he walked. It was ridiculous in its grandeur.

  Once again, Abe heard the chorus. He toyed with the idea that his return to ministry after his fall would be televised. Maybe Marion Butler, the woman with whom he had the adulterous affair, would be watching. He often thought of her and how he was minutes away from proposing to the already married woman when God pulled back the covers on her plot to get back at her husband. He could still hear her insincere apology and remember how he lived in fear of her husband ever finding him with his own revenge in mind. He still questioned whether the sweet words and warm caresses were all an act. Through the pain and regret he wondered did she still think about him.

  I’ll show her, he thought. In this robe he would make his comeback. But first he had to have a sermon. He dropped to his knees after replacing the robe on its hanger and opened his bedside Bible. He felt a nudging as he flipped through the book of Isaiah and allowed the book to open to chapter fifty-five. It was a familiar passage of scripture. It declared that, ‘His thoughts are not our thoughts, neither are His ways like our ways.’ It also demanded that we seek the Lord while He may be found. But where, God?

  Tears began to escape his eyes seemingly without cause. He knew he should meditate, but he had no time to tarry with this passage—no time to study. He had less than twelve hours before show time. Holding on to those words and trying to build upon them was like trying to build a sandcastle with dry sand. Abe knew the people in his church wanted to be impacted emotionally, not taught. They wanted to sing their song, tell their life’s story through testimonials, and have the pastor give them a catalyst for a good cry come sermon time. He didn’t have it to give. So he had come to rely on the words of others to give him something he could relay to God’s people.

  His entire collection of audio and VHS tapes, CD’s, and DVDs were of God’s Word through different messengers, most of which he had used before. He scanned his row of tapes and stopped at a cassette of a message by Pastor Willie Green when he was asked to preach for the pastor’s anniversary at Abe’s home church.

  He fired up the Sanyo stereo system complete with a turntable and cassette deck that was on the shelf under his television. He took the tape from the case and pressed play. A selection from the choir prompted him to fast forward. He stopped in time to hear Willie take his sermon topic, ‘Seasons Change.’

  “Some of you may or may not agree with me, but the seasons you find yourself in, in this lifetime, and how you fair during that particular season is based on the voice you decide to listen to and trust. Amen. The Bible says His sheep will know His voice.”

  Abe didn’t notice the tape had stopped. He was trying to grapple with his memory to figure out from what book, chapter, and verse that quote came. He felt his heart accelerate the way it did back when God’s Word would strike a chor
d. He remembered being at that service when this tape was recorded and marveling at how Willie Green served up God’s Word with no additives and no fillers. He didn’t use fancy words or catch phrases, just the meat of God’s Word. Everyone left full. That was the kind of preacher Abe had vowed to be. But he had gone Hollywood for so long, going under the surgeon’s knife in an attempt to transplant everyone else’s anointing. He didn’t know if he could turn back.

  He approached the tape deck with disbelief when he realized it had stopped playing. He was hungry for more of what Pastor Green had to say, as if he, himself was on the verge of a breakthrough. He pressed several buttons to get the tiny wheels inside the player from spinning in vain and to eject the tape altogether. A violent whack on the side of the machine released an explosion of thin cassette film exposed from its casing that he pulled until he felt it catch on a tiny spool inside. He let the mangled tape dangle and cursed his luck.

  He couldn’t go on like this. Abe felt sure that he would stand in front of that congregation and those cameras tomorrow and everyone would know he was a fraud. He stared at the ceiling, suspended in time between his past and his future. With his eyes set upon heaven, he waited temporarily on his help. He shook his head helplessly, then wildly, defiantly. He knew he needed to make a decision, to move from that spot. He searched within this time, for anything at this point. The words of Shakespeare, Socrates, or Confucius would be better than nothing . If a tree falls in the middle of the forest . . . He almost laughed . Then he thought about it. And there is no one there to hear it. How would anyone know?

  Abe turned his attention back to the television and surfed the channels with his remote, hoping that his all-access channels would help him locate the Lord. He landed on the string of channels that broadcast mega-ministries twenty-four hours a day. He took down notes, cut and paste sermon points, and modeled timing and execution. All the while he was hoping that once again, no one would know his shame. Later, as he practiced in the mirror with his robe, he imagined that he wasn’t any different from the pastors and bishops who he had borrowed from.