Come Sunday Morning

by Terry E. Hill

  12

  Tuesday

  No response came to Etta’s announcement of arrival at the Cleaveland estate. She called out again, “Pastor Cleaveland, Mrs. Cleaveland, are you home?”

  Hezekiah’s coat had been tossed over the back of a chair in the living room. This was the first clue that all was not well in the Cleaveland household. Hezekiah’s fastidious and controlling nature had always prevented him from leaving clothes scattered about the house.

  She began the long walk down the hallway toward Hezekiah’s study. She could hear the telephone ringing in the room. Etta stood with her ear near the door. The ringing telephone went unanswered. Clue number two. Hezekiah never passed up the opportunity to talk on the telephone.

  Etta tapped on the door and entered the dark room. The only light came from a glowing computer screen on the desk at which Hezekiah sat with his back to the door. Bookshelves filled with awards and mementos covered the walls of the study. Deep forest green carpet absorbed the remains of light that peeked through the drawn shades at the windows.

  Etta could only see the back of Hezekiah’s head above the high-backed leather chair.

  “Aren’t you going to answer the phone?” she asked softly. But there was no response. “Pastor Cleaveland, is everything all right?”

  The leather chair spun around. From the computer light she could see his hollow eyes. A silk tie hung loosely from his neck and unfastened cuffs dangled around his wrists. His expressionless face peered through the darkness. He spoke after several agonizing seconds. “No, I’m afraid that everything isn’t all right.”

  Etta’s face contorted into an expression of concern as she approached the desk. “Pastor Cleaveland, you’re scaring me. What’s wrong?”

  “Someone is trying to destroy everything I’ve…” He paused and swallowed deeply. “Everything Samantha and I have worked all these years for,” he finished.

  Etta sat slowly in a chair near the desk and asked, “Who?”

  Hezekiah waved his hands in a sign of bewilderment and replied, “That’s the problem. I don’t know who it is. I only know it’s someone intent on bringing down my ministry, and this time it just might work.”

  Etta looked puzzled as her heart pounded in her chest. She could clearly see the fear and despair on Hezekiah’s face.

  “What do you mean you don’t know who?” she asked.

  Hezekiah avoided her concerned gaze. He spun the chair around until his back faced her.

  “I don’t want to talk about it right now, Etta. I just need to think. Maybe I’m making too much out of this.”

  Etta stood and softly said, “All right, Pastor Cleaveland, but you know we all love you, and no matter how bad this is, everyone will always stand behind you.” She placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sure you’ll figure something out. You always do. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.”

  Chimes of the doorbell echoed through the house as she exited the room. Hezekiah turned his back to the door and said, “Whoever that is, tell them I’m not here.”

  Etta looked through the peephole and saw the head of Kenneth Davis.

  “Pastor Cleaveland, it’s me, Kenneth. Open the door. I need to talk to you,” he said from the porch.

  She opened the door. “Hello, Reverend Davis. Come in, but Pastor Cleaveland said he doesn’t want to be disturbed.”

  “Hello, Etta,” he said. “I’m sorry to come by unannounced, but I need to speak with Pastor Cleaveland. It’s very important. Is he in his study?”

  “Yes, but…”

  Kenneth walked through the house toward the study before she could stop him. “This will take only a minute,” he said over his shoulder.

  Hezekiah heard the door open, and before he could see Kenneth, he shouted, “I said I don’t want…Oh, it’s you. What do you want?”

  Kenneth entered and turned on the lights to reveal the crumpled man behind the desk. “Who is Danny St. John, and why didn’t you tell me about him yourself?”

  Hezekiah looked sternly at the towering man. “Because it’s not your concern.”

  Kenneth closed the door and walked toward the desk. “When you talk about stepping down and ask me to think about who your replacement will be, it is my concern. Now, please tell me what is going on.”

  “It sounds like you’ve already heard everything. Who told you? Catherine?”

  “Yes, she told me, but this isn’t about Catherine.”

  “Yes, I know. Like everything else in this church, it’s about me,” Hezekiah said sternly. “Well, I wish I could tell you it’s all a lie, but I can’t. I’ve been with Danny for a year now and somehow Lance Savage found out about it.”

  “Who told him? Who else knows about this?”

  “It looks like quite a few people know. Phillip, Hector, and Jonathon had a nice little surprise for me at lunch. Catherine, and now you.”

  Kenneth collapsed into a chair and threw his hands into the air.

  “Do you realize how serious this is? If the public finds out, they’re going to crucify you in the media.”

  “So that’s your opinion? I pay you a fortune, and all you can do is predict my demise? That’s the best you can come up with? Then maybe you should resign.” Hezekiah waved his hands in disgust.

  “This is just like you, Hezekiah. You screw up and then blame someone else. Well, this time you can’t blame anyone but yourself. I hope he was worth it, because he is going to cost you your ministry.”

  Hezekiah jumped from behind the desk and stood directly in front of Kenneth, who bolted to his feet. The two men stood nose to nose.

  “Who do you think you are speaking to?” Hezekiah said, poking a finger into Kenneth’s chest. “I’m still the pastor, and you still work for me. No one talks to me that way.”

  Kenneth did not demur.

  “You can get angry at me if you want, but that’s not going to solve anything. I’m just being honest with you. You don’t seem to realize the damage a story like this can do.”

  Hezekiah took a step backward.

  “You’re wrong. I do know the damage it can do. It’s all I’ve been able to think about ever since I met him, and for some reason, I just couldn’t stop seeing him.”

  The two men sat as the tension in the room slowly dissolved. “It wasn’t just sex,” Hezekiah said, looking into Kenneth’s eyes. “I actually do love him.” He placed his face in his hands and said, “Oh God. What am I going to do?”

  Without pausing to ponder the question, Kenneth spoke authoritatively. “The first thing you’re going to do is break it off with him. And then you’re going to deny everything.”

  Hezekiah looked up. “I can’t do that,” he said with deep emotion. “It’ll destroy him. You just don’t understand.”

  Kenneth grabbed Hezekiah’s shoulders. “No one in the world is that important. You’ve had your fun with this Danny kid. Now you’ve got to move on. It’s either him or your ministry.”

  Etta stood silently outside the office door with her ear pressed against the wood. She prayed Hezekiah had finally found a love strong enough to draw him away from Samantha Cleaveland.

  “What sides do you want with that? We’ve got macaroni and cheese, pinto beans, rice, cabbage, and candied yams. We’re out of greens today,” the waitress said, holding a pencil over a grease-stained order pad.

  Rev. Willie Mitchell scowled. “You’re always out of greens. I’ll have the macaroni and cheese and cabbage. And give me a Diet Coke with that.”

  Willie sat in the soul food restaurant with Virgil Jackson. The slight smell of mildew filled the air of the crowded room. Momma Lee, the restaurant’s owner, sat on a stool behind the cash register, where she pretended not to look at every bite each customer took. She never trusted anyone to run the register; so after twenty years of having sat on that stool, her stomach fit perfectly into the ninety-degree angle of the counter.

  The waitress looked suspiciously at Reverend Mitchell’s companion. “What will you have?” Sh
e knew a crack head when she saw one. The yellow on his fingertips and the pink scars on his lips from sucking a hot glass pipe were the first things she noticed about him.

  “Get whatever you want. This is on me,” Willie said.

  “Then I’ll have the short ribs with beans and candied yams and a Coke. Does corn bread come with that?”

  The waitress nodded yes, took their menus, and abruptly left the table.

  Patrons laughed and rubbed their bellies while Southern culinary delights paraded through the room in the hands of women wearing white blouses, black skirts, and comfortable shoes. Silk flowers with dirty edges and dusty plastic leaves sat on each table. Babies in high chairs wrestled with fried chicken bones, and hardworking men wolfed down barbecued ribs, so they could get back to work by one o’clock.

  Willie rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. The paper napkin tucked into his collar was moist from the perspiration dripping down his neck. His cell phone sat on the table next to an arrangement of Louisiana hot sauce, ketchup, salt, pepper, and a jar of peppers in vinegar.

  “I hear you just got out of jail. What were you in for?”

  “Burglary, but I’ve been straight ever since.”

  “That’s good. Where are you working at?”

  Virgil knew the caliber of men like Reverend Willie Mitchell. A shallow facade of respectability and Southern charm, under which lay the heart of a man who would kill his brother, if there was something worthwhile to be gained. He played along, anyway. “Nobody’s going to hire an ex-con these days. I’ve been looking for two months now.”

  “Where do you live? With your mother?”

  “No. She put me out a month ago. I’ve been living here and there. I have a social worker at the Los Angeles Community Center. He’s been trying to find a rehab program for me, but every place is full. I’ve been on a waiting list for over a month.”

  Willie snorted. “You need to get off that shit. Fucks up your brain, and then dumps you in the gutter. You’re too smart for that. Man, all I need is plenty of tight pussy, a good suit, and new car every year, and I’m fine.” He laughed out loud at his own wit. “Don’t need no shit that’s going to fuck me up and take all my money.”

  “I haven’t had any pussy in almost a year. I almost forgot what it feels like.”

  “I got a job for you that’ll pay enough to buy all the pussy you want.”

  Virgil could tell by the sudden change in the reverend’s demeanor that the “job” entailed something illegal. But in his current state of desperation, he was willing to do anything.

  “What kind of job?” he asked suspiciously.

  “I’ll get to that soon enough.”

  The waitress returned to the table with their orders balanced on her arms. “All right. Who had the fried chicken with cabbage and macaroni and cheese?”

  “Right here.” The reverend moved his cell phone to the side.

  “And you had the short ribs, pinto beans, and candied yams.” She placed the orders on the crammed little table. “I’ll be back in a minute with your Cokes.”

  “Diet Coke,” the reverend called out as she walked away. “And bring more butter with you.”

  The food required their full attention for the next few minutes. Hot sauce was sprinkled liberally over all of the reverend’s food. Salt and pepper seasoned his meat and everything within six inches of his plate. His corn bread crumbled as he spread on a cold pat of butter.

  The waitress returned with their sodas. Virgil immediately tore open six packets of sugar and poured them into his drink.

  “What the hell are you doing?” the reverend asked, with the flesh of the chicken dangling from his slippery lips.

  “I have a sweet tooth.”

  The conversation progressed too slowly for Virgil, so he decided to give the reverend a hand. “So what kind of work are you talking about? I’m desperate. I’ll do fucking anything.”

  “I need someone taken care of.”

  “What do you mean, ‘taken care of’?” Virgil asked, setting the fork on his plate.

  “You know what the fuck I mean. Gotten rid of. Smoked. Eliminated.”

  “Hey, look, old man. I can’t get involved in no shit like that. The next one is my third strike. My ass would be in jail for the rest of my fucking life.”

  Reverend Mitchell saw the fear in Virgil’s eyes. He held up his grease-smeared hands and said, “Slow down, boy. Take it easy. I’m not talking about doing anything that’s going to get you caught. I’m not as stupid as I look.”

  He didn’t want to lose him and disappoint Samantha, so he quickly introduced what he hoped would be ample incentive. “You’re a smart kid. I’m a smart man. You won’t get caught. It pays ten thousand dollars. Part up front and the rest when the job is done.”

  Virgil heard the glass pipe calling his name. A familiar pang cramped his stomach. His lips became dry, and his eyes glazed over with a smoky film. He grabbed the Coke and took a long swallow. “It’s not worth it,” he said, nervously clutching the edges of the table.

  Willie decided to up the ante. “All right. Twenty thousand and a plane ticket to anywhere in the fucking world you want to go.”

  “You’re shit’n me, right? Who is it?”

  “What difference does it make? Are you fucking in or not? Let me know so I can move on.”

  There was a long pause. Neither of the men ate. Virgil shifted from side to side in his chair while a fly buzzed over the corn bread. He pushed his plate away and asked, “When do you want it done?”

  Reverend Mitchell started eating again. He felt he had regained control. Now it was just a matter of closing the deal. His stomach churned as he recalled the urgency in Samantha’s voice earlier that day. “Sunday,” he said in a whisper.

  “This Sunday?”

  Willie looked nervously over his shoulders and whispered, “Keep your voice down, boy. You want the whole fucking place to hear? Yes, this Sunday.”

  Virgil stared out the window at the cars moving past the restaurant. “When would I get the money?”

  “Like I said. Part up front and the rest after it’s done.”

  “I’d want half up front.”

  “You think I’m fucking stupid? You’d smoke it up before you got to the corner, and I’d never see your ass again. I’ll give you one thousand on Sunday morning and then meet you somewhere later and give you the rest. So what’s your answer? Are you in or not?”

  Virgil thought of his mother, and what he could buy her with $20,000. He also naively thought of how he could get his life on the right track with that kind of money.

  “Do you have a gun?” he asked the reverend.

  “Yes.”

  “You know if you don’t pay me, I’ll fucking kill you,” Virgil said, looking directly into his eyes.

  Under the tough, seasoned facade, Willie Mitchell was a coward. The stomach ulcer kicked with such force that the flow of sweat on his brow doubled. “You don’t have to worry about that. You’ll get your money.”

  “All right. I’m in. So who is it?”

  “Hezekiah Cleaveland.”

  Virgil jumped up from the table and said, “You’re fucking crazy. Do it yourself.” He immediately walked to the door and left the restaurant.

  Willie pulled the napkin from under his chin and bolted for the door past Momma Lee. She struggled to her feet and yelled, “Hey, wait a minute. You better pay for that.”

  Without slowing his stride, Willie shouted, “I’ll be back. You’ll get your fucking money.”

  By the time Reverend Mitchell reached the sidewalk, Virgil was a half block away and preparing to cross in the middle of the street. Traffic was heavy as he waited for a clearing. Willie caught up with him. He was winded and his shirt flap came out of his pants from the run. He grabbed Virgil’s arm and said, “Wait a minute, Virgil. Hear me out. I know you need the money. What about your mother? I hear she’s about to get evicted from her apartment. You don’t give a shit about her?”

 
Virgil snatched his arm away. “Leave my mother out of this. I told you no. Now, get out of my fucking way, before I slam your fat ass into the fucking sidewalk.”

  Virgil had just started to step into the street when he heard Willie shout, “All right, thirty thousand dollars. Cash.”

  Even though the street was now clear, Virgil stopped with one foot still on the curb. He looked at Willie and asked, “Man, what is this all about? Why do you want this guy dead? What did he do to you?”

  Reverend Mitchell caught his breath and said, “It’s not for me. I’ve got a powerful associate whom he crossed and they asked me to take care of it.”

  “What are you getting out of it?”

  Willie laughed nervously. “Nothing. At least not yet. If I do this for them, I’ll get what I want soon enough.”

  Though he tried, Virgil could not turn away. The two men struck a deal and discussed the details as the cars whizzed by. Willie would pick up Virgil on Sunday morning in front of the Los Angeles Community Center. From there they would drive two blocks from the church, where Virgil would wait until exactly 11:30 A.M. The balcony of the church would be empty and all Virgil would have to do was get through the foyer of the church unnoticed, fire two shots, and escape as quickly as possible down Hezekiah T. Cleaveland Avenue.

  “I’ll meet you downtown that night with the rest of the money and drop you at the bus depot.”

  “Remember what I said, Reverend. If I don’t get my money…”

  “I know, I know. You don’t have to say it again.”

  13

  Eight Months Earlier

  Patrons filled the lively restaurant on the waterfront in the marina. Men in light blue shirts and Bermuda shorts shared hearty laughs with their wives and companions. Casually dressed women with windblown hair chatted while sipping steaming flavored coffees.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen. Welcome to Shutters,” said the maître d’ through a studied French accent. “Table for two?”

  “Yes, and somewhere quiet if you have it,” Hezekiah replied.

  “Would you prefer the deck? It is a lovely day for the sun.”