Selling My Soul

by Sherri L. Lewis

  He frowned and drummed his fingers on his desk for a second. “Okay, if you think that’s what’s best. What else?”

  There was a tiny knock at the door, and Ms. Turner came back with an ice cold bottle of water for me and a frosted glass that apparently just came out of the freezer.

  “Thank you so much, Ms. Turner. How thoughtful of you to make sure it was nice and cold,” I said. Bishop Walker could learn a thing or two about how to treat people nicely that worked so hard to serve him.

  He held up his coffee cup. “This is too hot and the cream tastes a little sour.” His voice tightened with irritation. “Get me another one.”

  Oh well.

  She bowed her head. “Sorry, Bishop. I’ll be right back with that.” She tipped out the door.

  I answered his question. “In addition to an immediate press conference, you’ll have to be ready to answer the press every time more information comes out on the criminal investigation and court case—how ever long it takes. Whenever new news comes out, the press and the public will want to know your response.”

  He drummed on his desk a little harder and clenched his teeth. “I don’t know, Ms. Michaels. I don’t feel like we owe them an answer. Why should we have to give them an explanation for every little thing that happens? I should just be able to say that I’m innocent of any wrongdoing or knowledge of these men’s behavior, and that should be sufficient.”

  I poured the water in the glass, watching the frost melt. “This is America, Bishop Walker. In this country, the press is king and image is everything. Americans are hungry for gossip, and if they’re not given an answer, they come up with their own, and it’s usually the most negative possibility. If you want to maintain your good name, then you have to answer. Every time you’re asked.” I took a sip of the water and marveled at how good the coldness felt rolling down my throat. “I know you understand that, otherwise I wouldn’t be sitting here.”

  He clasped his fingers together and leaned toward me. “I guess you’re right, Ms. Michaels. It’s important to protect what we’ve worked so hard all these years to build. God has blessed us thus far, and I’m sure He’ll continue to, even under such difficult circumstances. So you’ll be handling the press conferences?”

  “Of course, you won’t need to worry about anything other than handling their questions. Which is no easy task.” I took out a legal pad and pen I had slipped into my bag at the office. “We should move forward as quickly as possible and start our damage control campaign. Do you have time to go over some things now?”

  “This is my top priority. I’m yours for as long as you need me.” He smiled graciously.

  I almost gagged. “Okay.” I forced myself to smile. “Another thought, Bishop Walker. I think it would be wise to go beyond simply giving an explanation of your innocence. You’re going to need to offer the victims some sort of help. Of course, you’ll apologize at the press conference, but then you need to show how deeply you’re concerned for their healing and well-being. I think it would be beneficial to offer the victims counseling.”

  He nodded. “That’s an excellent idea. We can offer them counseling from any of the members of our ministry staff.”

  I shook my head. “I was thinking more of something on a professional level. Do you have any licensed counselors on staff?”

  Bishop frowned. “You mean like a psychiatrist?”

  “No, more like a psychologist or licensed social worker. A person trained in providing psychotherapy for people who have been sexually molested.”

  I could see the dollar signs clicking in Bishop’s head. I said, “I’m sure cost is no object to you or your congregation in ensuring that these individuals’ emotional needs are met. I’m sure you’re aware that sexual abuse is one of the most damaging things that can happen to an individual, especially at a young age.”

  Bishop Walker stroked his goatee. “Well, I’m sure the victims would be much more comfortable with a member of our ministry staff than with a complete stranger.”

  “As comfortable as they were with Deacon Barnes and Pastor Hines?” I knew I was pushing him, but the worst thing that could happen was that he could fire me. Which would also be the best thing that could happen.

  He pressed his lips together. “I do see your point. I’ll have Ms. Turner to begin to look into that.”

  Almost as if on cue, she gave her tiny knock at the door and entered, coffee tray in hand, head bowed. “I’m so sorry this took so long, Bishop. I hope this is better. If not, let me know, and I’ll run to the store for more cream.” She mixed the coffee on the little tray table again and set it on the saucer in front of him. After another little bow, she quickly exited the room.

  I took a long sip on my water, finishing it off. I wanted more, but wouldn’t dream of asking Ms. Turner for another thing. “Bishop, if you would, answer a few questions for me. In watching the news casts over the past couple of days, there are some things I wanted cleared up.”

  He nodded, taking a slow sip on his coffee. He didn’t frown or smile, so I figured it must be okay. Guess Ms. Turner would keep her job for at least another day.

  “How is it possible that over the course of twenty years, young boys were being molested in your church and you had no idea? These men were in positions of leadership, so obviously you worked closely with them. How could this go on right under your nose and you not know it? A couple of the boys even said that it happened in the church. Right here in your sanctuary. Really, how can you call yourself a man of God with things like that going on under your nose? It’s really hard to believe that you didn’t have any knowledge about it. One would even have to question if we went digging far enough, whether we’d find that you had participated in the same kind of behavior. Were you molesting little boys too, Bishop Walker?”

  I could see the heat rising off his face. He looked like he was about to explode. He rose from his large chair and pointed at me. “Who do you think you are, making those kinds of accusations about me? You have no right to say those things to me. In fact, I’m calling your boss now.” He picked up the phone then slammed it down. “How dare you! Get out of my office.” His voice bellowed and echoed off the walls.

  I stood with him, remaining completely calm. “Bishop Walker, is that the way you’re going to react the first time you speak with the press?” I folded my arms, waiting for him to collect himself.

  Ms. Turner opened the door. “Is everything okay, Bishop?” She glared at me like she was ready to pick me up and throw me out herself. All five feet two inches of her.

  Bishop took a deep breath. “Everything’s fine, Ms. Turner. Ms. Michaels and I . . . everything’s fine.” He gave a reassuring nod, and only then did she back off. She gave me one last warning glare before she left. Reminded me of a little toy Shiatsu dog barking its head off like it could really hurt somebody.

  I sat back down in my chair indicating for Bishop to do so as well. “Please forgive me for catching you off guard, Bishop, but I wanted to see how you would respond. Compared to the press, what I just did was . . . friendly. You have to expect that and much worse. Your response has to be calm and contained. You can’t afford to lose it like that on national television.”

  Bishop sat there almost trembling, recovering from my onslaught of questions.

  I sat quietly, giving him time to think. It was a trick I had been playing on clients for years to prepare them for press conferences. I had never enjoyed it as much as I just had with Bishop, though.

  I couldn’t wait to tell Monica about his reaction.

  Monica . . .

  Oh, dear God. How was I supposed to tell Monica that it was my job to make Bishop Walker look like an angel, completely innocent of ruining her husband’s life and the lives of countless other men and boys? She’d never understand, and she’d never forgive me.

  “Ms. Michaels, how do you suggest I respond to their questions then?”

  I shook Monica out of my head and focused back on Bishop Walker. “The mos
t important thing to do is practice.” I pulled a sheet of paper from a folder in my bag. “I’ve prepared a list of questions I anticipate you being asked. I want you to spend the rest of the day thinking of an answer to them. I’ll be back tomorrow for us to go over them. After I’m sure you’re adequately prepared, I’ll begin setting up things for the press conference. This needs to happen in the next couple of days, so I trust that you’ll do your best to prepare as quickly as possible.”

  I stood to make my exit. “It would be good if you had the name of the psychotherapist you plan to refer the victims to before we do the press conference. It will show how committed you are to helping.”

  He frowned, but nodded. He had probably agreed earlier just to make me shut up about it, but really had no intention of covering the high cost of therapy for eighteen boys and young men. And how ever many more would come forward as things unfolded. I was going to force him into it. At least I could make sure something good would come of me being involved in this whole mess.

  I couldn’t prove that he knew anything about what had been going on all those years, and that was the only reason I was still there. Even if he didn’t know, he was still responsible for the spiritual atmosphere of his church. If he were such a man of God, surely God would have pointed out to him that something was wrong.

  One thing was for certain, Bishop Walker needed to pay one way or another.

  Twelve

  After I left Bishop Walker, I went back to the office and got my other client assignments from Martin, reconnected with some of my media contacts, and worked a little to organize my office space. When I got home, I went through my closets to see which of my suits still looked half decent on me. After that, I surfed the Internet for a couple of hours. I ordered a few suits online from a couple of the stores I usually frequented. I didn’t want to pay the extra money to overnight them. Blanche would just have to deal with my droopy suits until they arrived by standard mail.

  I met with Tiffany who honestly made an effort to find a job that day. Her room was clean, and the kitchen was spotless. I knew I could expect things to stay clean for at least a week, then I’d have to stay on top of her to maintain things. It didn’t make any sense to me that she was capable of keeping things clean, but just didn’t. When I asked her to explain it, all she did was shrug and say she got busy and next thing she knew, things got out of hand. Busy doing what, God Himself only knew.

  After I finished questioning her about her day, I sheepishly asked her to help me do something with my hair and to let me borrow some of her make-up. I didn’t want to perm my hair again. She picked it out a little, but couldn’t seem to get the afro tamed enough to look professional. We both agreed my head was shaped too funny for a short cut. We finally decided that she would press it, pull it back into a rubber band, then attach one of her fake hair buns to it. That would last me until the weekend when we would have time for her to braid it.

  Sitting at the kitchen table smelling my hair frying and holding my ears so they wouldn’t get burnt reminded me of days when we were growing up. Aunt Penny snatching Tiffany’s head around, smacking her every once in awhile, telling her she ain’t had no business trying to be tender headed with her nappy headed self. Moms would finally push Aunt Penny away from a crying Tiffany, which left Aunt Penny free to torture me.

  I chuckled, and Tiffany didn’t even ask what I was laughing about. “Girl, Aunt Penny was crazy, wasn’t she?” We both laughed.

  Tiffany stopped pressing my hair for a second, and put her hands on my shoulders. “Sissy, I’m sorry about . . . everything. I hate disappointing you. I promise I’m gon’ do better. And I’m sorry about what I said about God. I wish I had your faith, Trina.”

  I reached up and squeezed Tiffany’s hand. “You can, baby girl.” And you will. It wasn’t the time to preach to her, but I knew God was softening her heart for me to be able to minister to her.

  When she finished with my hair, Tiffany told me to hold on for a second. She ran upstairs and came back with a tape measure. “I’ma get your measurements so I can fix some of your clothes. You can’t be going to work looking like a homeless person.”

  I laughed. She took several measurements, jotting them down on a napkin. “Come pick out your favorite outfits, and I’m gonna start working on it tonight. I can go over Stacy’s and borrow her sewing machine and stuff.”

  I looked at her with surprise on my face.

  She answered my unasked question. “Stacy wants to be a fashion designer, and she’s been teaching me to sew. That girl is fierce. She’s going to New York and is gonna be rich and famous one day.”

  I smiled and shook my head. Stacy and Tiffany had been best friends since fourth grade. They were more alike than me and Tiffany. Stacy never kept a job, couldn’t pay her bills, and had a thing for useless men. The only difference was that Stacy had two small children. Every six months or so, the two of them decided on a new career with which they would get rich and take the world by storm.

  “I know what you’re thinking, but this is for real this time. Stacy is gonna be a designer, and I’m going to do all her hair and make-up for her shows. Watch how we fix your clothes.”

  Tiffany disappeared up the stairs, and a few moments later, I heard her rummaging around in my closet. I guess it wouldn’t hurt. It wasn’t like I could wear any of them now anyway.

  Finally, when I couldn’t think of any other pressing things to occupy my evening, I had to pick up the phone. Procrastination time was over—I had to call Monica to tell her about my new assignment. I couldn’t seem to come up with a way to frame things to make it the least bit acceptable to her. Even though she knew Moms was sick and that I’d do anything to help her, there was still no way Monica would understand.

  I sat down at the kitchen table and dialed Monica’s number. After the phone rang a few times, I thought I’d get away with leaving a message and maybe being able to put off the conversation until tomorrow. Just when I expected to hear the recording and the beep, she picked up the phone.

  “Hey, Trina girl!”

  “Hey, Monica. How are you? You had a safe trip back?”

  “Yeah, girl. It’s so crazy to see your cell number on my caller ID. I can’t believe you’re back. I can’t believe I can talk to you on a regular now. You have got to come down here to visit soon. I wish I had spent more time up there with you. God, I missed you.”

  “I missed you too, Monica.” Her excitement drove the guilt like a knife into my heart. “I can’t believe I can talk to you without a ride into the city to be able to use the phone. I can just pick up my cell, press number two on speed dial, and there you are.” I gave a nervous laugh that I knew would give me away.

  “You okay, Trina? Is everything all right with your mother?”

  “Yeah, Moms is fine.” I sighed. “I had to go back to work today.” I fingered the stack of mail Tiffany had put on the kitchen table when she came in earlier. It was mostly bills.

  “Already? Goodness Trina, you haven’t even caught up on sleep yet. Why so soon?”

  “Girl, not only do I have to take care of my mom’s bills, when I got home, I realized Tiffany had let my house bills get way behind. I had no choice but to go back as soon as possible. I got my old job back with a raise. Which God knows I needed, desperately.”

  “Oh, good girl. God is so faithful. I’m glad that He came through for you. You’ll be out of debt in no time.”

  “Yeah . . .” I let out a deep breath.

  “Trina, what’s wrong? Girl, please, whatever it is can’t be that bad.”

  “Oh, but it can . . .” There was nothing to do but just tell her. “My first assignment was a damage control client. You’ll never guess who.”

  “Okay, so don’t make me try. Who is it?”

  “Bishop Walker.” I tore up a couple of credit card offer letters and stood to put them in the trash.

  Silence. So long that it made me nervous. I sat back down at the table.

  Monica final
ly spoke. “Bishop Walker? What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I have to do damage control for Bishop Walker. He’s trying to keep his image intact through this whole scandal. He needs to prove that he knew nothing of Deacon Barnes’s and Pastor Hines’s activities and that he is completely committed to making sure they are brought to justice and that their victims get whatever help they need.”

  Silence again.

  “Monica?”

  “Yeah, I’m here. So what did Blanche say when you refused to take him on as a client?”

  “That I had signed the contract and that I had no choice but to take it.”

  “And so you quit?”

  Now I was silent. I stood and put the rest of the bills in my overflowing kitchen drawer. I would have to take the time to sort through them soon to make sure there weren’t any other surprises Tiffany had ignored.

  “Trina, you quit right?”

  I let out another deep breath.

  “Trina, you can’t be serious. You’re actually going to help Bishop Walker? How could you even think of doing that?”

  “I don’t have a choice, Monnie. I signed a contract before I knew about Bishop Walker.”

  “So get out of it.”

  “Monica, it doesn’t work like that.”

  “Well, how does it work then?”

  I didn’t have an answer for her. I never stopped to think about what would happen if I walked into Blanche’s office, refused to take Bishop as a client and tore up the offer letter I signed. I wouldn’t have a job, that’s what would happen. And no way of paying my bills. And Moms’s bills.

  “Monica, you have no idea how bad Moms’s bills are and how bad my bills are.” I looked over at the kitchen drawer and felt my stomach sinking.

  “I don’t care. Trust God to make another way. Do you really believe God wants you to represent Bishop Walker?”

  I couldn’t answer.

  “Do you? I mean, when you prayed, God told you that this was His plan for you? It’s His will for you to help represent that . . . that . . .”