Though Sharla was used to helping her husband with his insurance business, taking on the title of First Lady had been a hundred times more daunting, partly because Sharla didn’t appreciate being thrown into a role she wouldn’t have wished on her worst enemy. She had watched her own grandparents struggle with their church—taking in strays off the streets, living in the back of the sanctuary at times, pawning the church’s drum set to pay bills, basically bending over backwards for the sake of the church and its ungrateful members.
Granted, Mark was no Grandpa Smiley. Grandpa was a musician-turned-minister who’d never really had a decent “gig” before becoming a pastor. In fact, he’d spent most of his 20s and 30s playing in juke joints and chasing after other women before the Lord changed him.
Mark was the polar opposite. He’d gone straight into multi-level marketing after finishing high school. Alongside successful mentors, he’d learned the art of networking and perfected his charismatic pitches, mastering techniques better than his peers who were sitting in university classrooms. He was a brilliant speaker, an even better salesman. He ran a tight ship and made good decisions based on the bottom line.
That was why, initially, Sharla put her own niggling objections aside and wholeheartedly stood beside Mark with New Vision. She didn’t believe he would turn out to be like her grandfather, selling his wife and his family short to tell people about Jesus. No, Sharla thought Mark would have better sense than to go “all in” with church. He should have been able to run the church like he ran his insurance franchise—keep a level head about things.
Sharla, at one point, had been glad to be a part of the First Ladies’ Fellowship. The other pastors' wives in the group had walked Sharla through the unspoken, unwritten, often unrealistic expectations she would encounter in her role. Though they didn't agree on how a First Lady should dress or whether it was okay for a First Lady to read erotica, they always gave her food for thought and a safe place to air her feelings.
"So why am I dreading this meeting?" Sharla wondered aloud. She sandwiched her Benz between Jasmine Pritchett's Beamer and Candace’s Lexus.
After growing up in poverty, Sharla knew she should be thankful that Mark's hard work had paid off. By the time Amani reached kindergarten age, her husband was making enough so that Sharla could quit her job as an office manager to homeschool their son. Even at that point, Mark's residuals combined with his pastor's salary had brought them to the point where they were pre-approved to finance her dream home. She had an appointment with the homebuilder coming up in just a few days.
Mark was a wonderful provider who also loved God. Most black woman—shoot, most women, period—would be shouting in her shoes. But for as good as her husband was, there was one thing he wasn't: home. Especially not since the church took off.
Sharla lifted the silver sandal straps in place over her Achilles heel and stepped out of the car. She repositioned her Ray Ban shades to serve as a headband, then pulled a swath of virgin Brazilian hair under the shades to produce a messy bang. She performed the classic lower-blouse-smoothing technique with a flattened hand almost unconsciously as she walked toward the door marked with the number twelve.
She wondered if, one day, New Vision would have twelve entrances. God, I hope not. All those entrances could just as easily serve as her exits, especially the way she felt that day. If the Lord had any kind of mercy on her, he'd leave New Vision where it was and send all those new people looking for a church home to other churches.
Upon entering the building, Sharla slapped her smile into place and made the first left into their meeting room.
"Hey, Sharla!" Candace welcomed her with open arms. As the woman of the house, Candace had said more than once that she made it her duty to stand at the door and greet every attendee of the First Ladies' Fellowship.
The two hugged quickly. Sharla then made herself a plate of fruit with yogurt dip and grabbed a bottled water. Before sitting she made her obligatory rounds, briefly embracing all ten of the women seated at five tables arranged in U-formation.
Sharla could remember how she'd once adored this space with its scraped walls, wood trim, and custom lighting. Even if the gold tablecloths and centerpieces hadn't been exquisite, the walls and stained concrete floors themselves could have been in a magazine.
Candace had been kind enough to "school" Sharla on how to make New Vision look like royalty, too, though Sharla didn't have the same budget.
"You gotta start somewhere," Candace had told her as they scoured the outlets for church decor. "Don't despise the little things. God will honor your faithfulness."
After taking a chair next to Beverly Knight, who was the third wife of the pastor at the arguably stale Fresh Life Outreach, Sharla decided to get over herself long enough to enjoy fellowship with these women. Candace was a friend, and Beverly definitely needed a friend under her circumstances. The third wife of any man was going to need some serious help.
Prayer opened their official time together, followed by the reading of the agenda, which was always fairly loose. They discussed the upcoming Juneteenth celebration, for which Janice distributed flyers so that the women could take them back to their respective churches.
"The libraries are really hoping to see a greater turnout this year," Janice added. "They say that since President Obama took office, interest in events that celebrate African American culture has declined."
"Mmm," the room mumbled.
"I guess some folk think we done made it to the Promised Land," Beverly mocked. That comment, of course, led to a sidetrack conversation about the pros and cons of Obamacare.
Sharla wasn't one to debate politics, but she listened attentively and patiently as her peers aired their true feelings in a forum where what they said wouldn't be misconstrued, quoted out of context in a post on somebody's Facebook page, and eventually come back to reflect poorly on their husbands or their church. Here, it was understood that whatever they shared with each other was off-the-record.
Candace managed to get everyone back on the agenda by reminding them all that if they really wanted to have a say-so in politics, they needed to vote in every election. "And we should all remind our congregants the same. Can I get a witness?"
They all agreed with, "Amen".
Sharla sat in unusual silence as the meeting proceeded with a recap of the plans for a first annual combined Samaritan's Purse effort for Christmas.
"I hope you ladies are holding on to your shoeboxes," Candace cooed. "And by looking at all these fresh-off-the-runway sandals you ladies are wearing today, I know we will have plenty."
Novelette Hampton remarked, "The way I hear it, everybody who's not at Joel Osteen's church is here at The Way, so I know your congregation will have plenty to donate."
Candace pointed a perfectly manicured index finger at Novelette. "God is good."
"All the time," Novelette finished the phrase with a raised eyebrow.
Though the women might have been open and honest with each other, Sharla knew full well there was some...well, not exactly jealousy, but a sense of competitiveness that reared from time to time. This shoebox drive was going to bring out the former pageant contestant in Candace. Judging by the amount of effort she obviously put into The Way and the professed success of her personal training business, Candace liked to win. All the time.
Sharla's self-esteem demon crept up, causing her to wonder if maybe there was something wrong within. She should care about New Vision the way Candace cared about Bishop Gipson and The Way after more than twenty years of service to their congregation. Maybe I just need to get a life. She had actually toyed with the idea of starting an event planning company or writing a book.
But how could she commit herself to something else when, basically, she was a single parent to Amani? She and Mark had taken the initiative to adopt him, to rescue him from the foster care system and a life of only God-knows-what with his birth parents. He didn't deserve to be abandoned again during the most crucial years of a you
ng man's life.
Sharla’s older sisters had both become pregnant during the hours of three and six p.m., the time between school’s dismissal and parents returning home from work. Sharla wasn’t about to leave her teenage son home alone to experiment with girls, drugs, and whatever else his hands could find to do. The world was too crazy. Sharla wasn’t about to let herself be the mother of a child who was building bombs in his bedroom unbeknownst to his parents. She didn’t “straighten up” his room regularly for nothing.
If only Mark could remove his super-hero cape long enough to drop down to the people who needed him most.
Now that the official agenda had concluded, the ladies were free to chat and catch up with one another.
"Oooh wee, Prophetess Alex Murphy just finished a revival at our church. I'm telling you, it was on fire," Beverly gushed.
"Where's she from?" Jasmine asked.
"I believe New Orleans," Beverly said.
"Nuh uh," from the youngest attendee, Ria De'Garmo. "I don't mess with people from New Orleans. They all got screws loose, if you ask me."
"Who dat talkin’ ’bout N’awlins?" Candace, a native New Orleanean contested in her native dialect.
Ria's face fell. "You're from New Orleans, Candace?"
"Born and raised."
"Oop, let me shut up then."
"But my family is crazy," Candace confessed.
"Whose isn't?" Novelette agreed as she turned toward Beverly again. "So, did Miss Murphy prophesy or prophe-lie?"
Beverly nodded, "She brought the word the first night. But after she preached the second night, she walked through the aisles and called out a lot of stuff. She told our choir director he needed to go ahead and marry the woman he was already living with. Told one of the deacons to quit playing scratch-offs. After that, a lot of people didn't come back."
The nonchalant manner in which Beverly ended the narrative sent a ripple of laughter through the room.
“You are too funny,” Jasmine wailed.
"What? I'm just telling you all the truth," Beverly shrugged.
The ladies continued to share church news – vacation Bible school plans, upcoming conferences and the like. Once the banter died down, Candace asked for prayer requests so they could close in conversation with God.
Jasmine asked for continued prayer for her mother, who had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Beverly’s brother, a diabetic, had suffered a foot injury and doctors said he would probably lose his foot if it didn’t heal soon. Ria wanted them to bring one of her high school classmates before the Lord as she recovered from the aftermath of a serious car accident.
Novelette, who seemed to always make it her business to get on the prayer list some kind of way, piped up, “My daughter. She’s got an ear infection that won’t go away. She’s miserable and so is everyone else. I had to come here today or I would have run out the back door screaming.”
Sharla smiled, remembering the days when Amani was a baby. With his chubby brown cheeks, that cute button nose, and those long eyelashes, she’d made sure he only wore blue so people wouldn’t mistake him for a baby girl. Despite the small port wine stain under his left eye, Amani had been absolutely adorable. But Sharla was thankful that with time Amani’s skin darkened, masking the birthmark almost completely.
“Hey!” Candace nearly yelled, causing Sharla to blink rapidly as she returned to the present. “Did you hear me?”
“I’m sorry. No. What did you say?” Sharla asked.
Candace laid her pen on the table. “What’s going on with you, girl?”
“You’ve been too quiet today,” Jasmine probed. “What gives?”
Sharla wondered if she wanted to take up the group’s time with this old-news conversation. No one wants to hear me whine. Everybody in there had signed up to marry an ambitious man and should have known that his aspirations would equate to many-a-lonely night. Lonely days, too, if he was actually good at what he did. It came with the territory. I need to put on my big girl panties and get over it.
She should be thankful. There were more serious prayer requests on the table. Sharla gave a fake yawn which, thankfully, morphed into a real yawn half-way through. “I’m just tired, that’s all.” She was tired, alright. She hadn’t told a complete lie, at least not in her head.
She might have escaped the other women’s trouble-radar, but the look on Candace’s face told Sharla she hadn’t fooled the hostess.
“You know, we’re all here for each other,” Lady Gipson scratched the surface of Sharla’s heart.
Instantly, tears threatened to ruin Sharla’s façade. Those women cared about her and her husband’s ministry. She had no reason to be ashamed—by that point, they’d all seen each other with mascara running down their faces.
Yet, something in her didn’t want the women to help her. She wanted to savor her bad attitude, savor every drop like a blue coconut sno cone. Besides, they’d just pray and ask God to change things. From where Sharla stood, God was part of the problem. He probably wanted her to be humble, submissive, stop being selfish, put all her feelings aside and suck it up for the sake of the church.
“Yes, I’m okay. Thanks for asking.”
Candace carried on with the prayer requests, though Sharla felt as though the older woman was keeping an eye on her.
She can keep one eye on me all she wants. Maybe Candace was part of the problem, too. People like her were the reason so many pastors’ wives were held to such a ridiculous standard. Always gotta look nice, come alongside your husband, be his helpmate. All this straight 1960s mumbo jumbo and it was all because men were too sorry to figure out how to multi-task like women do every minute of the day.
Besides, who was going to help Sharla while she helped Mark? Did God think women didn’t need help? Pulleaze! No wonder we have so much heart disease.
Sharla barely caught the “amen” at the end of the prayer. She grabbed her purse and headed for the door, offering yet another lie about needing to get to an appointment.
She even pretended not to see Candace through the rearview mirror trying to flag Sharla down as she peeled out of the parking lot.
Right or wrong, Sharla was no longer content to play the “good wife” role when Mark obviously didn’t care about his role at home.
Chapter 9
For the next few weeks, Mark focused on one thing at church—Jesus—and one thing at home: making Sharla happy by making more time for Amani.
The church had seen an increase in the number of people giving their lives to Christ at the end of each service, which gave Mark a renewed sense of commitment to New Vision.
On the home front, he and Amani texted each other more often than usual. They also spent a couple of hours playing video games together one of those Saturdays. Mark tried to get Amani to open up and talk a bit, but Amani seemed reticent, responding to every question with one-word answers. Mark decided to lay off. His son would open up if and when he felt like it. “I just want you to know that I’m here for you if you need me,” Mark had assured Amani.
“Cool.”
Mark had gone out of his way to make sure Sharla knew of his efforts with their son. He’d made a few comments about the video games, mentioned the few minor details Amani leaked through texts, and even printed the latest progress report from the school’s parent online portal.
“Looks like he’s doing better, Baby,” Mark remarked casually on their way to visit Sharla’s grandmother in the nursing home. Even their trip to visit Grandma Smiley, which he was only able to make because of a rained-out picnic, should have earned him brownie points.
“Mmmm,” she barely acknowledged.
Mark exhaled loudly.
She looked up from her tablet and asked, “What are you breathing all hard for?”
“You wanted me to connect with him, right?”
“Yeah.”
He spelled it out for her, “So the least you could do is say something good about it.”
Her face soured. “W
hat? You want a cookie for doing what you’re supposed to do?”
Okay, that’s it. He’d had enough of Sharla’s fonk attitude to last him a lifetime. Every ounce of “Pastor” Carter slid out of Mark as he aired the thoughts he’d been holding back in hopes of avoiding a massive blow-up with his wife. But it was clear there was no way around it. No way to make her happy, no way to please her, period.
Mark made a quick swerve to the right and abruptly parked the car in the back corner of a grocery store. It was as good a place as any to have a come-to-Jesus meeting.
“Why are you stopping here?” Sharla demanded an answer as she slapped her tablet closed.
“What’s wrong with you?” he asked. The words came out with less force than he’d imagined they would, definitely due to the fact that God had given him insight into his wife’s pain.
“Nothing,” she replied softly.
“Stop lying to me. You’ve been treating me like a dog for the past few months, trying to act like I’m not doing my job in our marriage, making me feel bad about my role as a father. You come to church with a bad attitude; you put on a fake smile while I’m preaching. I know something’s wrong, but I can’t help you fix it unless you tell me what it is.”
He waited. The swish of the windshield wipers punched through the silence intermittently.
“You can’t fix me, Mark,” she finally snapped, pounding her thighs with her fists. “I’m a human being. I have emotions and feelings and needs. I’m not some kind of corporate branding experiment.”
Bewildered, Mark sat with his mouth open. “What are you talking about?”
“This!” she threw her hands in the air. “We’re so far apart, you have no earthly idea what I’m going through.”
“No. I don’t,” he admitted. “You said you wanted me to spend more time with ‘Mani, so I did.”
“It’s not just Amani,” she revealed.
“What do you expect me to do? Read your mind?” Mark gasped in exasperation.
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