The Bishop's Daughter

by Tiffany L. Warren

  A young woman breaks down in tears at her seat, sobbing, “Jesus, Jesus …” For some reason, I feel led to go to her. I take her hand and whisper a prayer in her ear, and the young woman sobs on my shoulder. I can feel the weight of her pain, and I pray for her strength.

  Daddy continues his sermon. “What did Jesus ask the woman? He asked, ‘Where are those thine accusers?’ The Pharisees, convicted by Jesus’ words, had scattered. Their evil intentions could not flourish while the grace of God abounded. The devil may accuse you and betray you after leading you into sin, but he must flee—I said he must flee—when the glory of God is present.

  “Then finally, Jesus told the woman, ‘Neither do I condemn thee … go and sin no more.’ Did he give her an impossible task? How could this woman go the rest of her life and sin no more? The fact of the matter is that we, like the woman, need Christ daily—we need His blood daily. When we live a life surrendered to Him, He gives us power to resist sin, and yet when we do fall, His innocent, uncontaminated blood erases our debt.

  “Emoni, come up here and sing this song for me.”

  I stand and walk down the center aisle with tears in my eyes. I always cry when the spirit of God is present. It’s involuntary. When I get to the front of the church, I take a microphone from the organ player and start singing Daddy’s favorite worship song, Donnie McClurkin’s “Great Is Your Mercy.”

  Daddy starts the altar call. “Come on down and surrender yourself to Jesus. Let His blood cover you all the days of your life.”

  The prayer line extends to the rear of the church, with nearly a hundred people wanting or needing something from God. Even Darrin comes up for prayer.

  Last in the prayer line is a woman who looks a hot and utter mess. Her clothes are dirty and crusty, and her hair weave looks like it could get up and walk off of her head. She staggers slowly down the aisle, holding on to a young man with her. I can smell her from the pulpit, but Daddy doesn’t seem to mind; he’s holding out both arms.

  “Come on down to the altar, daughter. The Lord wants to bring a healing in your life.”

  The woman looks up from the floor, and her eyes lock with Daddy’s. A strange expression of fear and guilt comes over Daddy’s face. Now the woman is smiling. So many of her teeth are missing that her smile looks like a sneer.

  When the woman gets to the front of the aisle, she thrusts the young man in front of Daddy. He jumps back as if the boy has the plague.

  In a low, scratchy growl, the woman asks, “Why don’t you lay hands on your son, Kumal?”

  Daddy places one hand on the young man’s head and says a brief prayer. Only me and Oscar are close enough to see that Daddy’s hand is trembling. A queasy feeling grips my midsection.

  When Daddy finishes the prayer, Oscar rushes forward and whisks Daddy out of the sanctuary. The congregation doesn’t see that anything is wrong. They all think that Daddy is spent in the spirit.

  I have just one question. How does that disgusting woman know my father’s first name?

  Darrin and I follow closely behind Oscar and Daddy. As we approach the car, I notice the young man standing next to the vehicle. Even though he seems harmless and is holding a Bible in his hand, I feel a horrible sense of apprehension.

  “Is everything cool?” Darrin whispers to me.

  I shrug. “I don’t know.”

  Oscar goes completely into security mode and strides ahead of us, making sure he’ll reach the man first. He says in an ignorantly loud voice, “Can I help you with something?”

  The young man replies, “N-no. I just n-need to speak with the bishop, if that’s all right.”

  Oscar looks skeptical, but Daddy intervenes. “What is it that you need?”

  The young man says, “I thought our reunion would be a lot more joyful than this. I’ve been waiting for this moment my entire life.”

  A dark frown has come across Daddy’s face, like a shadow. “Young man, I don’t know you. I think you’ve got me mistaken for someone else.”

  “Is it okay if we speak in private, sir?”

  Why does he need to talk to my father in private? Looks like Darrin and Oscar have the same question, because the two of them circle in like vultures.

  Daddy replies, “There’s no need for that, son. Go ahead and tell me what’s on your mind.”

  “Well … there’s no easy way to say this, so I’m just going to spit it out. Bishop … you … you’re my father.”

  “I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” repeats Daddy confidently. “I don’t know you or the woman who was with you.”

  “Sir, I’m not mistaken. You remember my mother, although she was a lot prettier when you knew her. Her name is Genevieve.”

  Daddy’s gaze jerks from the car door back to the young man. “Did you say Genevieve?”

  “Yes, sir. Genevieve Walters. You and her used to get high together. She says you’re my father.”

  Daddy wipes his face with his handkerchief, but he can’t wipe away the guilty expression. “She looks like death warmed over.”

  “So you do remember her! You got clean, but she never did. She drinks, too, got a bad case of cirrhosis, but she can’t get on the transplant list because she’s got that crack cocaine in her system.”

  “That’s a shame. What’s your name?”

  “Kumal. She named me after you. Said you was the only one who ever cared about her.”

  I get over my loss of words when he says this. “Are you trying to say that you are my father’s son?”

  Kumal Jr. lights up and reaches out to hug me. “You’re my sister?”

  Darrin stands between us. “Hold up, brotha. This ain’t a family reunion yet.”

  Kumal says to Daddy, “Look, I don’t want anything from you. I was just hoping you’d talk to my mother and try to convince her to get off drugs.”

  “I will pray for your mother, but you are not my son. That’s impossible. Let her know that I’m praying for her.”

  Tears are in young Kumal’s eyes. “Sir, I promise, I don’t want nothin’. Can I just get to know you? It’s been hard growing up not knowing you.”

  Daddy takes one last look at the young man and then gets in the car. I want to say something to Kumal, anything that will make that look on his face disappear. I want to tell him that he looks exactly like my daddy and that I believe him, but the thoughts never become words.

  I feel Darrin’s strong grip pulling me over to the car, but I can’t move. The tears running down Kumal’s face are the saddest thing I’ve ever seen. I break away from Darrin and hug Kumal. I whisper a prayer in his ear, like I did for the young lady in the church.

  He seems better when I’m done. His tears are still flowing, but he looks hopeful. Now I allow Darrin to lead me to the car, where Oscar and Daddy are waiting for us.

  The car ride home is silent. Darrin and I don’t share any jokes or games of tic-tac-toe. No one even makes eye contact. Every breath Daddy exhales sounds like a forlorn sigh.

  All of this is entirely too much to comprehend. I think of the strangest things under pressure. Like I probably should be asking Daddy all about Kumal’s mother, but I’m a little bit thrilled that I have a sibling who looks like me.

  I’ve got a big brother. And he’s named after my daddy.

  Chapter Twenty

  DIARY OF A MAD BLACK BLOGGER

  What’s up, cyber homies and homettes? I know, I know. It’s been a minute since I last wrote. That’s because I’ve been busy. I’ve been doing what my mama calls “running for Jesus.”

  Seriously.

  I’ve been working hard—real hard—trying to live right and helping out in the ministry. I’ve been touched by the Bible in so many areas of my life, and I’ve been able to successfully fight some powerful man urges.

  But.

  And this is a big ole but.

  Let me just give y’all a hypothetical situation. What if a pastor—a bishop—is a great preacher and teacher? What if he leads people to deliverance every week
? What if he lives modestly, gives to the poor, and does great things in the community?

  What if he has a secret illegitimate son?

  I may have the scoop of a lifetime, but I’m gonna get back with y’all when I get facts and details.

  I really, really need y’all to pray for me … Y’all can hit me up in the comments section, but put me on the prayer list, too.

  COMMENTS

  Sister Mary 10:13 p.m.

  The blood of Jesus is against you, MBB. Touch not my profet. That’s what the Word say.

  Angie 11:00 p.m.

  Wow … MBB, I’m praying for you. That’s a tough situation. Did you get the girl though?

  Single black churchgoer 12:19 a.m.

  Yeah, MBB, which of those hot girls did you choose? The bishop’s daughter or his wife’s armor bearer? Don’t nobody wanna hear about the pastor’s illegitimate child! They all doing some kind of dirt anyway. Follow Christ, and you ain’t got to worry about all that.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Darrin

  I’m sitting cross-legged on my couch, deep in thought, the evening’s weirdness still feeling fresh. Got a notebook full of good notes from Bishop’s message. It was a good message, but I can’t even think about that right now. I’m thinking about a story.

  More specifically, I’m thinking about the story. The one that I came all the way to Atlanta to uncover. The exposé that’s going to put me on the map and get my father off my back. That story. In my gut, I know I’ve found it, but now that I’ve found it, I have no idea what to do with it.

  My choices are clear. Write the story or don’t. Writing the story involves my finding that woman in Savannah and compelling her to spill the beans. Not writing the story means that I turn a blind eye to the scandal staring me in the face. The journalist in me can’t allow that to happen.

  And since the scenario in Savannah, I’m starting to feel like it’s useless trying to do the Christian thing. Bishop stared his possible son in the face and basically said, “See ya!” And right after he preached a good message and prayed for people.

  It’s late, after eleven p.m., when I hear a knock on my door. Does anyone in Atlanta call first? But I know before answering the door that it’s Dorcas. More than likely, she wants to know how the day went.

  “Hello, Dorcas. I wasn’t expecting you,” I say dryly as I open the door.

  “Hi! I know it’s late, but I wanted to see how things went in Savannah.”

  I sit back down on the couch and close my eyes. It is entirely too late for her to be this bubbly.

  “That bad?” she asks.

  “Worse.”

  Dorcas sits down on the couch next to me. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  I shock Dorcas by bursting into spontaneous laughter. It has occurred to me that this saved woman is visiting me at my apartment late at night. A month ago we would have already been in the bedroom. It’s funny to me that taking her virtue hasn’t even crossed my mind.

  “Sister Dorcas, are you here with good intentions? Because back in the day, when a woman visited me at this hour—”

  Dorcas laughs. “This is not a booty call.”

  “Okay. I just wanted clarity.”

  “What I really want to know is what happened with Emoni. Did you two hit it off?” asks Dorcas with a nervous chuckle.

  Yeah, we hit it off. Thinking about our jokes brings a smile to my face. I can’t remember the last time I laughed that hard. Instead of making her seem immature, Emoni’s youthfulness is innocent and attractive. And then she earned my respect when I watched her pray for that girl in the church and the man who might be her brother.

  But I don’t say any of this to Dorcas. “We actually had a lot of fun, mostly cracking jokes on Oscar.”

  “See, I told you. Emoni is a great girl.”

  “You’ve made a believer out of me.”

  Dorcas stands. “I guess I’ll get going, then. I don’t want to keep you up. Besides, we’ve got church in the morning.”

  “You sure? I could pop some popcorn, and we could watch a movie.” I need the distraction. I’m not ready to be left alone with my thoughts about Bishop.

  Before Dorcas can reply, I’m on my feet and getting the microwave popcorn out of the cabinet. Dorcas smiles and sits on one end of the couch with her feet stretched clear to the other side, leaving a small area for me to sit.

  When I’m done, I walk back over, holding a bowl of buttery popcorn. “Where am I supposed to sit?”

  “Down there,” answers Dorcas as she points to the opposite end of the couch.

  I laugh. “All the way down there?”

  “I think that’s the wise thing to do,” Dorcas replies, her face serious and her arms crossed.

  “What if I want to make a comment about the movie?”

  “Write me a note.”

  I sit down slowly and rub my hands on my jeans. My heavy exhale shows my frustration.

  A rush of thoughts floods my brain. I’m remembering Dorcas’s lips on mine. I’m feeling like if Bishop Prentiss can’t walk the straight and narrow, then how can I?

  Whatever the reason, I slide across the couch in one fluid motion. Before Dorcas can object, our lips are locked in a deep, deep kiss. It’s the kind of kiss that can end only one way. At first she doesn’t resist. I can feel her heart racing and her breathing becoming ragged. But when I place my hand in the warm spot between her legs, she jumps up like I’ve gotten out of pocket.

  “D-Darrin! What are you doing?”

  “Baby, what did you come here for?”

  Dorcas frowns and hisses, “Not this.”

  “Wow. I thought this was what you wanted.”

  Dorcas’s chest heaves in and out. “What I want is someone who respects himself enough to wait until he’s married. I want a saved man.”

  I’m embarrassed and confused. I’ve never been in this situation. It feels like I should be apologizing, but the words won’t come.

  “I guess I’m not him, huh?” I ask with a sigh.

  Tears fill Dorcas’s eyes. “You could be, Darrin.”

  She goes to the door and sees herself out. I don’t even try to stop her because I know that I’ve blown it.

  I sit back on the couch and take in what Dorcas said. She told me that I don’t respect myself. Wow.

  I whip out my laptop and open up my blog page. Right about now I feel the need for strangers to tell me that everything is cool in my world.

  DIARY OF A MAD BLACK BLOGGER

  Why am I up at the midnight hour blogging? Real talk. I just went through something brand-new in my life of dating. I just had a woman tell me no.

  Now, I’ve spit game to women before and been shot down—so that’s not what I mean. I’m talking about a woman who’s feeling me and has been dating me. I tried to take it to the next level. The sexual level. Y’all know what I’m talking about.

  Anyway, she turned me down; told me that I don’t respect myself.

  Most women hit you with that “You don’t respect me” line. But she told me that I don’t respect myself. I gotta say, that cut me deeper than any curse words or blows that could’ve been thrown my way.

  I. Don’t. Respect. Myself.

  And the really scary part is: I think she’s right.

  Here I am, trying to be a Christian, and at the first sign of trouble, I’m ready to throw it all away and jump in the sack with a woman I like but don’t love. Maybe I’m a lost cause.

  I’m closing the comments on this post, because I’m not sure I’m ready to hear your replies. Mad Black Blogger signing off …

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Emoni

  It’s Sunday morning. The Lord’s day. We should be rejoicing and being glad, but our house is in an uproar.

  Daddy came home last night and apparently told Mother everything that happened in Savannah. They argued late into the night. I’ve never, ever heard them yell at each other. But Mother unleashed a fury no one in this house knew she had.
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  I’m standing before my mirror, playing with my feathered bangs and feeling anxious. I’m thinking about my brother Kumal and how I wish we’d gotten a chance to talk more. Also, I can’t help but consider how well Darrin and I got along. I just hate that the evening ended on a low, low note.

  I hear a light knock on my door. Must be Tyler, because Sascha never knocks.

  “Emoni, what in the world is going on?” asks Tyler nervously.

  “I don’t know, Ty.”

  Tyler comes into my room and closes the door behind him. I sit down on the edge of my bed, trying to wrap my arms around this situation.

  Tyler questions, “Did something go down in Savannah? Did Oscar flip out on that Darrin guy?”

  “Why would Oscar be going off on Darrin?”

  Tyler raises his hands apologetically. “No reason. Forget I asked.”

  “Actually, some man confronted Daddy.”

  Tyler’s eyes widen. “Confronted Bishop how?”

  “He says he’s Daddy’s son, by a drug abuser named Genevieve.”

  “You don’t think Bishop could be—”

  “No. Oh, I don’t know. His name is Kumal, and he looks just like Daddy.”

  “Well … Daddy is a man, and he has a past that we don’t really know anything about.”

  “Tyler, I’m not about to sit up here and speak anything wrong against Daddy. I’m sure he’ll explain this to us in due time. And we know all about Daddy’s past. He testifies about it all the time.” I say this with conviction, hoping that it’s the truth.

  “I’m just saying that it’s possible. That’s all. Everybody’s got skeletons.”

  I need to dismiss this conversation immediately. “Tyler, I can’t hear this right now. You want something to eat?”

  “Nah, I’m good.”

  “Well, I’m getting something in my stomach.”

  I leave Tyler sitting on my bed and go downstairs to the kitchen to make breakfast. I guess that’s only if you consider a piece of toast and bottled water breakfast. I’m not sure my stomach can handle anything else.

  The doorbell rings. Strange for a Sunday morning, but Oscar is prone to checking in on Daddy personally when something is wrong.