Holy Ghost Corner

by Michele Andrea Bowen

  Shirley was wishing the same thing herself. She knew Baby Doll from back in the day. And if that girl could get saved and delivered, there had to be hope for her and her condition. Just the thought got Shirley all worked up and anxious to get down to that altar for prayer.

  Gwen was absolutely flabbergasted. In all of the years that she’d known her ex-husband, she couldn’t have ever imagined him getting to this point. At times she’d wondered what it would take to get him to give his life back to Christ. And all the time it was being faced with a problem that couldn’t be solved with hard work, discipline, organization, multitasking, and confidence. He finally recognized that everything he had and was and could do, even his revered “confidence,” was from God.

  Bernice was so thankful for all of the people who had turned their lives over to Christ. And it was such a blessing for Baby Doll to come to church and get right when Big Gold—the man who had single-handedly helped her right out of her mind—was making a rare appearance in church. When God said that vengeance was His, He was not playing. She glanced over at her daughter, Theresa, and almost started laughing. That girl was ecstatic over Lamont rededicating his life to Christ and getting filled with the Holy Ghost.

  Bernice knew from experience what it meant to have a saved husband. With a saved man, time and energy were not wasted on harsh words, too little compassion, limited understanding, and a hardness of heart that interfered with the man’s ability to love his wife as his own flesh.

  Men who had not given their lives over to Christ listened with what they believed were rational, linear, intelligent and “just the facts, ma’am” ears. Saved men asked the Lord to open their hearts and ears to what their beloved was saying, no matter how emotional and “nonlinear” the words might appear on the surface. If a saved man had trouble understanding his wife, he knew he could always go to a better source than her—the Lord—to make even the most convoluted conversation crystal clear.

  Theresa held her head back so that the tears wouldn’t roll down her cheeks. To see Baby Doll get saved and then bring Mr. Lacy to the Lord was something. But watching the big, bad Lamont Green humble himself before the Lord was a miracle.

  “Lord,” Theresa began praying silently, “touch Lamont’s heart and let him know that I am the one you have picked out for him,” before it occurred to her that this was the first time she’d had this kind of revelation concerning her feelings for him.

  Charmayne reached into her purse to send a text message to Jethro Winters that he might be in for a serious fight with Lamont Green, then changed her mind. She didn’t have a clue as to what she could say to help Jethro understand what he was up against, now that Lamont’s confidence and skills would be girded up with weapons from the Lord. That would be just too “Negrolistic” and obscure for Jethro to wrap his very carnal intellect around.

  Chapter Fourteen

  LESS THAN TWO WEEKS AFTER THAT MEMORABLE service, Lamont attended his first meeting with the Trustee Board to plan for the church’s Christmas Festival. Generally, this activity was planned and implemented by the missionary groups. Rev. Quincey, however, had requested the administrative change this year, to aid in the Fayetteville Street Church’s efforts to raise money for Green Pastures’ closing cost grant program. There were several families in the congregation who wanted to live in the new Cashmere Estates, and many of them would need assistance with securing financing and money to purchase a home.

  Lamont had hesitated about joining the Trustee Board when the pastor first issued the invitation. But James and Bug, who were also members of the more powerful Steward Board, were overjoyed to be able to work with Lamont on behalf of their pastor and church. And they both believed that he would receive so many unexpected blessings from giving of himself and his time in this way.

  If there was ever a time when Lamont could benefit from unexpected blessings, it was now. The pending battle between Green Pastures and Jethro Winters’s company could get nasty. Plus, there were so many opposing concerns embedded in this challenge—black/white, sacred/secular, rich/poor, old-guard/new-school, old money/need money. The morning paper had, in fact, displayed a cartoon with a tiny Lamont Green looking up at a gigantic Jethro Winters while holding a slingshot in his hand.

  Lamont was the first one to enter the men’s parlor. He had forgotten how much he liked this room, with its inviting masculine decor—high-backed black leather chairs, black lacquered conference table, platinum carpet, gray silk draperies, and an enormous lead crystal vase stuffed with fresh lilies.

  He had stood in this very room waiting to get baptized at twelve. He had knelt down on his knees in this room when the church fathers had blessed him and prayed for his business. He had stood in this room waiting to enter the church for his first marriage over twenty years ago. And he had slumped down in one of those black leather chairs when the pastor told him that his wife wanted out of the marriage.

  Lamont sat down in what for him was the most comfortable seat in the room—at the head of the table.

  “Good evening,” came from a biting voice that sliced right through Lamont’s peace. His home training kicked into gear, and forced him out of his chair and on up to extend a hand, despite the fact that he felt like doing just the opposite.

  “Sykes.”

  Parvell grabbed Lamont’s hand in what he thought was one of those threatening, hand-crushing grips. He frowned when Lamont stared him dead in the eye and then gripped his hand in a painful iron vise, refusing to let go until he saw color draining from Parvell’s face.

  “Still play-acting with God, Green,” he said, in an effort to recover some of his dignity after that excruciating handshake.

  Lamont sat back down, refusing to honor Parvell’s petty retort with a response. If anybody knew about “play-acting with God,” it had to be Sykes, with his closet full of costumes to go with his starring role.

  Parvell took a seat directly across the table from Lamont, gingerly fingering the sterling silver lion head carving on one of his signature canes, as if he were waiting for the most important meeting in Durham County to start. Lamont couldn’t help but wonder why he would wanted to be involved with something as unpretentious as the Christmas Festival the church sponsored every year.

  Lamont thought about calling James on his cell and telling him “thanks but no thanks,” when Theresa walked in with Bug and Vanessa, only to be followed by James with Rhonda in tow.

  He couldn’t take his eyes off Theresa, who was looking awfully fine in butternut-brown suede jeans, a cream silk turtleneck sweater, chocolate suede ankle boots, and a chocolate suede baseball cap on her head. He loved the way she wore her makeup—a whisper of pale brown shimmer on her eyes, sexy eyeliner that gave her eyes that smoky look, warm blush on her rich brown cheeks, and a sheer reddish brown tint of gloss on her full and pouty-shaped lips.

  And that perfume—Euphoria—made Lamont want to pull the girl on his lap, give her round behind a good, open-palm slap, and whisper, “Who’s yo’ daddy, baby,” in her ear.

  About the only person in the room who missed Lamont’s reaction to Theresa’s entrance was Theresa. James and Rhonda wanted to shout, along with their co-conspirators, Bug and Vanessa.

  They had been praying on Lamont and Theresa so much and so hard until Rhonda now had a joke about it, where she said, “The phone rings in heaven. Gabriel answers it. The Lord says, ‘Who is it?’ And when Gabriel says, ‘Guess?’ God just sucks on His teeth, shakes His head, and says, ‘I’ve got some uprisings, a war, and a host of other needs to attend to, and they ’bout to worry my last heavenly nerve on Lamont and that Theresa girl. Handle my business, Gabe, before I have to hurt somebody in Durham, North Carolina.’”

  Parvell knew he should have taken Roxanne up on her offer and gone to her house for dinner. There was nothing worse than having to watch a woman who used to belong to you get all excited over the mere sight of another man. Because that is exactly what Theresa did when she laid eyes on Lamont Green.

&n
bsp; But that was all right. After next week’s meeting with the DUDC, he had something that would loosen Green’s grip on things. Parvell was confident that this committee, made up of four-white-folks-strong with one-lone-black-voice-for-decoration, was not voting to rebuild “the projects.” No, those folks wanted to build the committee’s war chest, get a few developers with deep pockets in the palm of their hands, and get their scratchy palms soothed with green from time to time. Plus, they wanted to get more white folks in that expanse of well-placed land and real estate near Downtown, Highway 40, Bull Durham Ball Park, and Duke University—land now inhabited by folks who would not be able to afford houses with a minimal asking price of $350,000.

  This project was only the beginning. Parvell was looking to expand his business from selling real estate to development. All of those underdeveloped and currently unvalued properties extending from Downtown Durham, down Mangum Avenue, and East Durham were ripe for the picking. He could make a killing if he played his cards right.

  Parvell contemplated leaving for the second time in less than thirty minutes. Rev. Quincey was running late. There was one too many Greens in the room. The chance that Queen Esther Green would make an appearance was great. And it would be his misfortune that Baby Doll Henderson and her new husband would roll up in here quoting scripture in the exact same way that she belted out the words to that hymn the day they joined church.

  If that woman came up in here grinning and slurping at everybody in the room but him, he would lose it and snatch those ridiculous denture casts right out of her mouth. Anybody who knew anything about Baby Doll also knew that there was no love lost between her and the Sykes family. This was especially true for his Uncle Big Gold, who had pretended to be her first husband’s friend, just so he could get up in their house and have a clear path to the man’s wife. Then he lied to Doll, who was young, pretty, frustrated taking care of those babies all day while her husband, Davy Crockett, slept, and lonely at night while he worked and the babies finally went to sleep.

  Parvell was about to leave when he started vibrating. He glanced down at the cell attached to his belt and checked the number—Charmayne.

  “I’m in a meeting,” he said with obvious irritation in his voice.

  “At church,” she asked, as she pulled up next to his Mercedes in the church parking lot, her worry over him being with Roxanne Daye gone.

  “Why?”

  “I have the check from Jethro for the Christmas Festival,” she told Parvell. “He thought that throwing a li’l somethin’-somethin’ at the church would make it hard for Rev. Quincey to choose a side when the press contacted him. Because you know that the press is coming to him to get an opinion on all this. And there’s nothing like money to help somebody forgo expressing one.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me that when you first called?” Parvell demanded, and got up to meet her at the door when it was clear that everyone in the room, including the newcomers, Rev. Quincey and the first lady, along with that dag-blasted Queen Esther Green, and Cousin Buddy Green of all people, rolled up in the conference room. There were just too many Greens in this room.

  Charmayne’s cell went off and she thought Parvell had hung up on her. She was about to push redial and cuss him clean out, when she saw him standing at the door and holding it open for her.

  “Thank you,” she said and then stared him up and down, trying to figure out what was off about him. He wasn’t wearing a suit. In fact, his gray cords, matching gray silk turtleneck, and navy suede field jacket were so sharp, the outfit almost made him look like one of the rest of the brothers.

  “The check—how much?” Parvell queried, miffed that Jethro hadn’t even told him he was donating some money, and then had given the money to Charmayne, providing her an edge over him in all of this. His cell vibrated again—Roxanne.

  “Excuse me,” he said smoothly and walked away from her to take the call.

  At first Charmayne decided to be polite and wait as Parvell took his call. Then she heard his voice go down to the “girl let me hit that” decibel, when he said, “Hmmm, baby, you really wearing that? My, my, my.”

  Charmayne moved closer to where Parvell was standing. He moved and she moved again. He moved some more and she moved some more. He inched away another foot, she inched up on him a foot and a couple of inches. Finally, he stopped talking, gave her a nasty look, and then tried to shoo her away.

  Charmayne sucked on her teeth and backed up off of him. Then, when he wasn’t paying her any mind, she eased on into the men’s parlor to handle her business.

  “Suck-ah,” she whispered and laughed softly. If she had just a teaspoon and a half more tolerance for Roxanne, she would have called that heifer and encouraged her to give Parvell a hard time for not rushing over to see whatever the skinny skank was “wearing.” But she couldn’t stand her. Plus, the skank was on a mission to become Parvell’s “boo,” and probably wouldn’t be inclined to have some fun at his expense with one of his other women.

  The first person who saw Charmayne was Theresa, who thought she was dressed more for an audition for a video by the rapper 50 Cent than church—even if it were a Tuesday night. Because that tight, sage green, jersey knit V-neck dress was so short, it showed off more of those Tina Turner-quality legs in sage fishnet stockings than was necessary.

  The men couldn’t resist taking a quick peek at her sparkling green patent leather, ankle-strap shoes with those four-inch clear heels. Rhonda and Vanessa wondered if Charmayne had a stripper’s pole somewhere in her house.

  “Are you sure you’re in the right room? No,” Bug continued, “let me be more frank. Are you sure you’re even in the right building? This is ‘chutch’ and the Christmas Festival Committee meeting . . . and not . . . uh, The Place to Be.”

  Charmayne couldn’t stand that Bug Hopson from way back in the day, when they were at W. G. Pearson Elementary School. She ran her tongue across her lips, and went and stood right up on Bug, but quickly retreated when she saw the “I will slap you” expression on Rhonda’s face.

  “Too bad that heifer is up in here tonight,” Charmayne thought. “’Cause Bug Hopson is looking kinda appetizing with that Omega Psi Phi fishing hat dangling on his head.”

  Another glance at Bug, who bore too strong a resemblance to Theresa for her comfort, brought Charmayne back to her senses. No matter how tempting the “hors d’oeuvre,” Bug was still a Hopson. And the Hopsons and the Robinsons never did have much love for one another.

  She flung her new weave around and then reached down in her cleavage and pulled out a check. She curled up her lips and said, “I know exactly where I am, Dawg. And why don’t you take this check from one of my more prestigious clients.”

  James took the warm, perfume-scented check and opened it—$1,800.00. He smiled. Sometimes white folks like Jethro Winters truly believed that black folks, especially what he considered to be the “churchy” ones, could be bought for what amounted to a few fried fish and slaw dinners.

  “Your esteemed client is kinda cheap, ain’t he?”

  “Cheap,” Charmayne said, indignant. “You ought to be glad he gave you twenty-five cents, with the way your brother been dogging him out.”

  James fingered the check and then gave it to Rev. Quincey, who opened it and laughed. Quincey put the check in Lamont’s hand and said, “We don’t have to take this, you know.”

  “No, take the money,” Lamont answered him, thinking that once more the Lord had been on his side. Because in an effort to encourage Rev. Quincey to keep his opinion about Jethro Winters’s business dealings to himself, Winters had given the opposition a signed document—his own check—that proved his “support” of whatever the church’s Christmas Festival money was used for—in this case, Green Pastures. And there was a whole lot more money pledged than this chump change. Lamont didn’t have anywhere close to the resources of Winters’s corporation, and he always kept ten grand in his petty cash flow. So, he knew this tidbit didn’t amount to much more than
booty call money for Jethro’s “boo,” Patty Harmon.

  Bug removed his fishing hat and sat down. No need to argue with Big Bro on that one—especially when it occurred to him what Lamont was already thinking.

  Rev. Quincey picked up on the train of thought, too, and grinned. He held his hand out for the check and said, “Ms. Robinson, I believe that our manners have been remiss. Please tell Mr. Winters that Fayetteville Street Church is grateful for his donation and will put this check to good use.”

  Charmayne, who’d been gearing up for a fight, suddenly felt all her steam evaporating into dry nothingness. Something didn’t feel right. These Negroes were just too slap-happy over this little miserly check for her comfort. She studied Lamont Green for a moment.

  “You need anything else?” the pastor was asking, hoping she’d take the hint and leave. Last thing he wanted was Jethro Winters’s satellite sitting up under them, gathering information to send back to her command center.

  “No,” Charmayne said and walked to the door, bumping into Parvell.

  “Have I missed anything?” he asked.

  “No,” Charmayne said again and left. She wasn’t about to tell him a thing. Charmayne loved Parvell and she was going to get him good for not returning that love. She couldn’t stand that the Negro acted like nothing was going on between them in public. And worse than that, he was now parading that old stuck-up, Roxanne Daye, around like she was the best thing since being able to buy tickets for the new North Carolina lottery.

  “Well,” Rev. Quincey said, “maybe we can get down to the business we’re here for—the Christmas Festival. Miss Theresa, Bug told me that you are playing Mrs. Claus? And Lamont, you are Santa, right?”