Shaking Grier’s hand as he rose from his seat and ascended the inspiring steps, O. J. smoothed his satiny black robe and stepped to the lectern. As he sucked in the smell of burning candles and Afro Sheen that permeated the sanctuary, O. J. knew he was home. The black church was the office from which he would build a lifelong career, one that would someday bring him his own Mercedes and BMW, a beautiful wife, and a fancy house outside Atlanta, probably in good ol’ Buckhead. For a moment he let himself bask in the silent adoration of the congregation. As always, the moment of peace filled him with memories of his late mother. Momma, you’d be proud of your baby.
As the audience waited reverently on his first word, O. J. gripped the podium, ready to start the show. He’d stayed up too late with his “Freak of the Week” the last couple of nights to craft a new sermon for this service, but he’d been inspired this afternoon. On the fly, he’d worked up a revised version of his message from Mt. Vernon Baptist’s revival last month. Far as he could recall, no one from Light had been in attendance that night; a few new sprinkles, and this would come off as a completely different message. The Lord was good.
“Praise the Lord, saints!” Almost five years into his preaching career, O. J. was free of the nervous mannerisms and tentative openings of most preachers his age. To keep his concluding remarks from sounding stilted, he decided to open in the singsong cadence he loved to close with.
“Well, uh, church, giving honor to the Lord God and our Savior Jesus Christ, I just wanna let you know that I stopped by tonight with a word! A word from who, ya say?” O. J. paused long enough to ride the wave of adoring encouragement the congregation lavished on him. They were eager for his next words, just the effect he lived for. “The Lord talked to me last night and told me, he said, O. J., someone at Light is hurting! Someone just had some disturbing news brought their way! Maybe a loved one is ill. Maybe a wayward child got their rusty butt locked up in jail. Maybe it was something as simple, God forbid, as hearing a fellow member is bad-talkin’ you behind your back! But that would never happen here.” O. J. grinned mischievously as a ripple of laughter washed through the sanctuary.
“But seriously, my brothers and my sisters, you may right now be in the midst of a trial, something that makes you feel like you’re dying a slow death. Well, the Lord told me to stop by and deliver you the following message: he can give you life after death, no matter how difficult the experience or the trial may be. He specializes in life, and he’s an expert at overcoming death. Please join me in turning your Bibles to the following Scripture . . .” Like a veteran clergyman, O. J. eloquently read and then began to interpret his 1 Kings passage. With a seamlessly smooth delivery, he broke the essence of the words into easily understandable morsels, making the audience feel the Holy Book had been written especially for them.
Twenty minutes later he was lubricating the congregation to the breaking point, evidenced by the swooning and swaying of women, young and old, as he huffed and puffed toward the climax of his message. In his wildest dreams as a pudgy preteen, he’d never imagined he could have this effect on women, godly or otherwise. Even as he leaned hard into the microphone and raised his right hand heavenward, he couldn’t stop the thought that crept through his mind. Some of these same women wouldn’t have given my chunky behind the time of day a few years ago. But I’m showing ’em, that’s for sure. No woman says no to O. J. Peters anymore.
He pressed forward, knowing the climax was near. “God has an answer for your trouble! He showed how well he overcomes death when he let Jesus lie in that grave Friday and Saturday before raisin’ him up on Sunday, oh, that marvelous Sunday! Jesus died that horrible death so that we can live today, regardless of the trials! In him, we can overcome anything!” Swept away with enthusiasm, O. J. grabbed the microphone from the lectern and began to croon a baritone version of “His Eye Is on the Sparrow,” slaying the few remaining members who had kept their composure.
Minutes later, thunderous applause filled the sanctuary. O. J. descended the steps back to the main platform, pumped his fist heavenward, and collapsed into his plush chair. The high he got from delivering the Word was second only to the rush of romantic passion. Maybe he’d never be anything more than a C student, and he’d certainly never be respected for his athletic abilities, but one thing he knew: no one could touch him when it came time to perform.
After the service, O. J. stood in line with Pastor Grier and the other associates, receiving the gratitude and prayer requests of members as they made their way past the clergy. He stood between Grier and the Reverend David Archibald, Grier’s official right-hand man. Archibald didn’t seem to care much for him, but O. J. was in the dark as to why. He had no ambitions of ever taking over the reins at Light of Tabernacle; he knew his father’s home church in Atlanta would be ready and waiting for him when he got out of seminary. Pastor Peters, Sr., had already seen to that. Maybe he needed to assure Archibald of this. He was tired of the judgmental glances and frowns the little man would shoot his way when he thought O. J. wasn’t looking.
“Rev. Peters, thank you for the inspiring message. God sho’ is blessing you, boy,” said Sister Myrna Phillips, one of the most senior members of the body. Though her back was bent at a forty-degree angle, the radiant inner beauty and peace that shone on her card-board-colored complexion was always what struck O. J. most powerfully. Life had not dealt this woman a fair hand in his book—widowed, abandoned by her second husband, and preceded in death by her only daughter, this saint continued keeping on. It was people such as this who reminded O. J. there were real lives that needed the encouragement he and his colleagues provided. Pastoring wasn’t entirely a game.
“Sister Phillips, thank you so much.” O. J. leaned down and wrapped his arms around her. “How are you feelin’ this week? You’re lookin’ just as lovely as always!”
“Thank you, baby, the Lord’s been good,” Mrs. Phillips responded. “Keep me in your prayers.”
O. J. flashed a wink at the elderly matron. “Only if you promise you’ll do the same for me. God bless!”
“Reverend, you headed for the seminary, huh?” Anticipating Grady Wells’s infamous viselike grip, O. J. tried not to wince as he took the man’s hand. A mailman with more than ten years of faithful service under his belt, Wells was not quite thirty years old and could have passed for O. J.’s age. Despite a salary that was far from staggering, Wells appeared to be a confident leader and provider for his wife and their four children, ages one to nine. “So when you become the reverend doctor, try not to forget us peons at the little church, okay?”
Jovially slapping the bigger man’s back, O. J. laughed his comment off. “Hey, Grady, you know and I know a minister ain’t nothin’ but a servant. We all got our own ministry, you know. I’ll never forget where I came from ’cause I’m always gonna be where I come from—God’s church!”
“I heard that,” Wells exclaimed. “Seriously, bro, we’re all proud of you. Now I hear you even working to help save the Ellis Center!”
O. J. beamed. “I’m just doing my part. Someone’s got to keep that place open. The harvest is plenty, but the laborers are few, my brother!”
Wells clamped a taut hand onto O. J.’s shoulder. “Well, you keep servin’ in God’s name, O. J. We need more role models like you. Whenever my oldest boy, David, fights me about staying up to do his homework and make the grades I demand, I point to you. I tell him, ‘You hear how Rev. Peters talk so good and powerful, even though he even younger than your daddy? That’s ’cause he is educated, about to graduate with a college degree, and then earn one from a seminary!’ Keep up the good work, young blood, little ones are looking up to you.”
Flattered, O. J. whispered his thanks and turned to his right as Wells began his customary banter with Pastor Grier. The sight of the next person in line made him want to crawl under the communion table. Keesa Bishop, a short honey dip with an attractive and healthy figure, was dressed in a stonewashed denim jacket, matching knee-length skirt,
and a mock turtleneck. The short brown locks of her fresh perm complemented her perky but plain facial features.
O. J. was not in the mood to appreciate the new do. For the last five days since he had kicked her out of his bed, Keesa had taken to harassing him. Although he’d made it clear that their relationship was over last Friday, she had left a total of six messages on his voice mail since then, insisting he return her calls. She had not shown up at service on Sunday, much to his relief, but now, suddenly, here she was in front of him.
“Good word, Rev,” she said, shooting him a crooked smile that was obviously painted on solely for the pastor’s benefit. The glare of the four gold earrings in each of Keesa’s ears threatened to knock O. J. off his feet.
“Thank you, sister, thank you,” he replied, shaking her hand for appearances’ sake and turning his attention to Odessa Carp, who stood behind his former lover. O. J. could feel his right hand shaking. He’d never been confronted in church by a woman he’d wronged. Most of the time they had enough sense to respect his need to keep business and pleasure separate. He knew Pastor Grier would never tolerate a minister who had women chasing him down in front of the congregation. He prayed Keesa would keep stepping and keep her mouth shut.
“Oh, O. J.,” Keesa said as she took Grier’s hand, “we will talk before you leave tonight. I’ll be waiting by the door. I hope you don’t think you can ignore me forever, boy.” Whether she was aware of it or not, the twist of her neck, in plain view of Pastor Grier himself, was unmistakable. O. J. felt a small bead of sweat form on his forehead. Has this girl lost her mind?
Pausing midshake, Pastor Grier looked from Keesa to O. J. with a playfully amused expression. “I’m stayin’ out of that one!”
Cracking a phony smile at Grier’s quip, O. J. turned and grabbed Odessa’s hand as if it were a life preserver. “How’s my favorite girl?” he oozed to the little biblical scholar.
The eleven-year-old’s eyes met O. J.’s, reverence brimming in her voice. “I enjoyed your message, Reverend. What was the text again? I want to take it home and share it with my mommy and her boyfriend.”
Amazed again at the little girl’s maturity, O. J. relaxed and plunged into an exposition of the scriptural texts from his message. He would do whatever it took to wait Keesa out; he’d deal with her on his own terms and no one else’s. It was time for Keesa to recognize he had a reputation and a future ministry to protect.
Keesa had been a pleasant diversion once, but she was not going to ruin his career.
CHAPTER 4
. . . . . . . . . . . .
BOOTSTRAPPER
Terence Davidson was having a bad dream. It was Pledge Night in early September, and he was a freshman again. He and four of the other thirty-three pledges of the Gentlemen of Quality Social Club were several blocks from campus, braving the harrowing labyrinth of streets surrounding Highland. Their heads shaved skintight, their bodies clothed in faded blue jeans and white Fruit of the Loom T-shirts, Terence’s group of “little bros” raced through one block after another in a state of panic.
Tonight was the big scavenger hunt, and Terence’s group had been scampering through Highland’s hood—the Highland Grille up the block, the General Highland statue near Alabama Avenue, even the banks of the reservoir near Children’s Hospital—all in search of items chosen by the “big brothers” of GQ. They’d located as many as they could find before realizing they were running late for the check-in at Johnson Hall. The last team to arrive could forget the prize of GQ membership and all they believed it would bring: access to campus leaders, in-crowds, and of course, women.
As they hurtled toward Johnson, an off-campus dorm deep in the heart of Briar Hollow, the project-packed community bordering Highland, Terence and his bros shouted at one another with growing impatience and unease. Already Terence’s mind was full of the nightmares he knew the others shared: endless push-ups as punishment for their tardiness, blistering verbal abuse, and, finally, humiliation in front of Johnson’s finest coeds.
By the time they rounded the corner of Twelfth and T, two blocks away, Terence felt his wind growing short but refused to show it. He smiled wearily as Kelvin James sped past him. “They gonna make us look like punks,” Kelvin sputtered, his feet flying. “It ain’t about getting there late, y’all!”
“We almost there now,” Terence gasped. “Move your legs and shut your mouth, man.” The sudden backfire of a car down the block silenced him. He shrugged it off and tried to forget how stupid it was for five Highland students to be on this street, at this hour. Johnson’s neighborhood of decaying row houses and miniature projects was the worst of any off-campus Highland dorm. An after-dark sojourn through here was a legendary unwise move: the only folk traversing this terrain at night were ill-informed freshmen or overconfident upperclassmen.
As they crossed another block, diving into the heart of Briar Hollow, Terence felt his chest pump with a new anxiety; fear was seeping in. Imagine, him: a brother who’d spent his formative years in the nearby Shaw community, in his granny’s rented two-bedroom row house. He had plenty of experience in these hoods. As the grunts and groans of his bros closed in on him, though, Terence knew what was different this time. He wasn’t surrounded by the most reliable aides: far as he knew, all of these other dudes were from one-light small towns or cushy suburbs. Even his boy Brandon Bailey, whom he’d made fast friends with a couple weeks back, was turning white with fear. These brothers couldn’t handle themselves in Briar Hollow. What were they doing?
“Oh, freak!” Brandon paused under a dingy street lamp, checking his watch, and the others stopped too. “We’re late. It’s two after ten!”
Panicked, Kelvin desperately pointed a high-yellow finger to his right. “Look, if we cross over and cut through there, we’ll save two blocks and come out right at Johnson!”
Terence followed his friend’s gesture and winced at the small elementary school halfway down the block. To its right sat a large, weed-filled yard that stretched over to Johnson Hall’s block. Terence knew it would save time, but he also noticed the series of idling cars lining the block in front of the school. Standing beside the autos—cracking jokes, smoking blunts, and imbibing forty-ounce Red Bulls—were a group of neighborhood residents. For a moment Terence felt more at home than he had so far in his first few weeks at Highland. Here were some down-to-earth, unpretentious folk, just bein’ themselves, damn what the rest of society thought. They were almost his homies, after all. He canceled that thought when he noticed their suspicious glares. Who was he kidding? To these folk, he wasn’t Terence from around the way; he was just another faceless, uppity Highland student.
He played with the idea of protest before letting his pride take over. “A-all right, let’s do it, fellas! Follow me!” He put his chin down and charged toward the school-yard entrance, dodging the sidewalk straddlers.
“Damn, ya could say s’cuse me, spoiled brats,” came a predictable reprimand from a whiskered man with beer sopping his patchy beard.
Near the yard entrance, a spike-haired sister squatted on a cement staircase. She eyed Terence and yelled at the top of her lungs, to no one in particular. “Who these muthafuckas?!”
The heavy smell of marijuana stung Terence’s nose and eyes. It was no more pleasant to him today than it had been when his younger brother, Biggie, started using it. Expelling the rank air from his lungs, Terence sensed a growing restlessness in the crowd. As Brandon and Kelvin pushed ahead through the opening of the ten-foot chain link fence surrounding the yard, the night lights overhead glanced off their shiny noggins.
“Who you little shits think you is, comin’ on our territory!” a teenage boy dressed in a loud Nike sweat suit sneered and began to run alongside Terence, hatred filling his eyes. Terence pumped his muscled legs, which had propelled him to glory on nearby basketball courts, and decided to play deaf. A few more yards, and they’d be out of harm’s way. No need to provoke the silly-ass brother by answering his trash talk.
“Hold up, nigga, I got somethin’ for ’em!” The threatening voice, which came from behind Terence, was loaded with malice.
Terence’s eyes grew wide with shock. “Brandon, get down!”
His warning was too late. Brandon’s pace was cut short as a forty-ounce projectile glanced against his bald head. He had been leading the pack, but the sensation of blood oozing from his right temple stole his fire, leaving him wobbling in place and clutching at the mushy wound. The other bros, clearly out of sorts, continued past their fallen comrade, ducking and weaving to save their own lives. From behind, Terence heard the cock of a gun barrel. “Go on, y’all,” he yelled, wondering if they even heard him. “I got him!”
He sped over to Brandon, who had dropped to the ground, and grabbed his arm, barely slowing his stride. “You want your momma to get a call in the middle of the night? Get the hell up!” Before he had even finished the sentence, Brandon was at his side and matching Terence’s pace with ease. Neither one dared look back. They were almost through the yard when a shrill ring pierced Terence’s eardrums.
With a start, he awoke from his afternoon nap. He reminded himself: that’s in the past now. Though he’d survived his share of moments more harrowing than that night, those events recurred in his dreams every so often. He didn’t view the dreams as nightmares so much as reminders of the trials he and his boys had survived to make it this far. They were going to beat the odds, and a dream like this one drove that truth home. As Terence rubbed sleep from his eyes, he heeded the shrill purr of the cordless Motorola on his chest. He pressed the flash button, feeling morning breath caking his gums. “Um, yeah.”
Between Brothers Page 4
