Come Sunday Morning

by Terry E. Hill

  The level of resolve in his voice surprised the doctor. “I’d like to help you with this problem,” he said. “We, of course, won’t be able to solve it today, but I would like for you to come back next week before you talk to your wife about it. I’d like to help you figure out how to save your marriage and your ministry. Would you allow me to do that?”

  “I think it’s too late, Doctor.”

  “It’s never too late to do the right thing.” They exchanged a few more words when a gentle reminder sounded on the desk. The two men stood and shook hands.

  “I hope to see you next week, Hezekiah.”

  “I’ll think about it. Thank you for listening.”

  As Hezekiah pressed the button summoning the elevator, he knew that this would be the last time he would ever see Dr. Joseph Canton again.

  Danny sat alone as he sipped a frothy latte at the coffee shop a block from his home on Crenshaw Boulevard. The smell of freshly brewed coffee filled the space, and the compact disc “Pick of the Day” was playing over the shop’s sound system. It was a funky little café with overstuffed secondhand sofas and chairs placed in positions that allowed customers varying degrees of privacy while they leisurely enjoyed exotic blends and overpriced pastries.

  Customers stood three deep at the counter ordering subtly nuanced variations of the traditional steaming cup-a-joe. “Decaf caramel macchiato, with soy milk, extra hot, and no foam” was the order from one seasoned drinker. “Mint mocha chip macchiato, double shot, and chocolate whipped cream,” another confidently requested of the barista.

  Other patrons sat in chairs and sofas and read the morning newspaper, or busily tapped away on laptop computers. Danny was lucky enough to get his favorite table in an alcove at the front window. Here he could be assured that no one would sit close enough to subject him to an irritating one-sided cell phone conversation consisting of, “Who will be at the meeting today? Why was she invited?” or, “Where would you like to have dinner? I hear the food there is lousy. Okay, that sounds like a good idea.”

  Danny was reading the local section of the paper, when he felt the familiar vibration of his telephone in his pocket. The caller ID indicated it was his friend Kay Braisden, who had recently moved to Washington, DC.

  “Hello, Kay,” he said. “How are you?”

  Danny and Kay had been friends since college. She was the same age as Danny, a devout Christian, and the daughter of a pastor. By all outward appearances they seemed an unlikely pair. But the reality was they were very much alike. She was pretty, prim, and proper, and he was the soulful poet who preferred staying home on Saturday night over dancing the night away out at the hottest new nightclub with the beautiful, young, and gay crowd.

  “Don’t ‘how are you’ me, Danny St. John,” Kay answered snippily. “I’ve been trying to reach you for two weeks now. Why haven’t you returned my calls?”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I haven’t been a very good friend to you lately, but I’ve been really busy here. What is going on with you in DC? Have you found an apartment yet?”

  “I couldn’t find one in Washington, but I finally got a cute brownstone just over the bridge in Virginia. I can’t wait for you to see it. It has the coziest fireplace and original fixtures. It’s two stories and I actually like my neighbors. It’s a bit pricey, so I had to get two roommates. One is a writer and the other a buyer for a boutique in DC. You’ll like them. When are you going to come and see me? I can’t wait to show you around.”

  Danny hesitated. “I’m not sure when I’ll be able to get away.”

  “All right, Danny. Who is he?”

  “What do you mean?” Danny asked shyly.

  “I know you very well. Whenever you disappear like this, I know you’re seeing someone. Now tell me who it is this time.”

  Danny paused and then said, “You’re right. I am seeing someone, but—”

  “I knew it.” Kay interjected and continued with a flurry of questions. “I want to know everything. Who is he? Where did you meet him? How old is he? What does he look like? What does he do for a living?”

  “Slow down, Kay. I can’t say who it is. You would know him.”

  “Why? Is he famous? Did you snag yourself one of the Lakers?”

  “No, he’s not an athlete,” Danny replied with a hint of exasperation in his voice. “I really don’t want to talk about it. Can we please change the subject? I saw your sister last week at the market. She said your father is thinking about retiring.”

  “Danny, I thought I was your best friend. Why are you afraid to tell me his name? Do you think I’m going to blab it to the newspapers?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. That never crossed my mind. To be honest, I’m concerned that you might judge me.”

  “I didn’t overreact when you told me you were gay, did I?” she asked defensively.

  “As a matter of fact, you did. You didn’t speak to me for a week after I told you.”

  “I apologized for that. It just took me some time to get used to the idea.”

  “I know, and I accepted your apology. But for that whole week I thought I had lost my best friend. I don’t want to go through that again. What you think of me is very important, and I don’t want to risk our friendship.”

  “Why would you think this would upset me?”

  “Because he’s a married man.” Danny took a deep breath and continued. “And a minister.”

  Kay did not respond. There was a long moment when no words were exchanged. Then Danny said, “You see. I knew this would upset you. That’s why I haven’t told you about him. I’ve never done anything like this before, but I love him.”

  To Danny’s relief Kay finally spoke. “Who is he?” she asked with no expression in her tone.

  “Hezekiah Cleaveland.”

  Danny could hear a slight gasp escape from her lips.

  “Danny,” she said with great hesitation in her voice, “I don’t believe this. Honey, you know I love you, but this is wrong. He’s a married man.”

  “I don’t need you to tell me that. I’ve gone over this a thousand times in my head. I’ve wanted to break it off with him, but I just can’t.”

  “Danny, I accepted the fact that you are gay, even though I never told you it broke my heart. I even held my tongue when you were dating that horrible egomaniac from San Francisco. But this…”

  Danny did not interrupt, and allowed Kay’s words to continue their painful course.

  “Danny, I have to pray about this. I don’t know what to say.”

  “I understand, Kay.”

  “I love you, Danny.”

  “I know you do.”

  “I’ll call you in a few days.”

  “Good-bye, Kay.”

  Danny stared out the window of the café. The morning traffic had begun to subside, and the paper no longer held stories of interest to him. He knew this would be the last time he would receive a call from Kay Braisden.

  15

  Hattie had not slept well the night before. Exhausted and still a bit groggy, she made a strong pot of coffee, sat under the bird lamp, and turned her weathered brown leather Bible, with King James Version embossed in gold on the cover, to the Twenty-third Psalm. The dates of her mother’s and father’s births and deaths were recorded on the front pages of the Bible. The marriages, births, baptisms, and deaths of the Williams and Fisher, Hattie’s maiden name, families were all chronicled within the pages of the Bible. Yellow highlighter striped passages on every page, and all the margins contained Hattie’s handwritten notes in black, red, blue, and graphite.

  Hezekiah had appeared in her dream again the night before. Hattie clearly saw Hezekiah’s body falling through the sanctuary at New Testament Cathedral with a force that would ensure death. Members of the congregation scrambled frantically to clear a space on the sanctuary floor. Feathered and flowered hats scurried around the room like brightly colored marbles that had been spilled from a schoolgirl’s sack onto the pavement. Choir members in flowing robes an
d sashes ran to safety and screamed, “Pastor Cleaveland is falling!”

  Mothers shielded the eyes of their small children from the scene that would surely scar their young minds for life, while old ladies in sensible shoes hobbled away from the inevitable point of impact.

  Hezekiah could see the look of horror and fear in the eyes of his beloved members even at the pace that his body fell. Women whose powdered cheeks he had kissed and men whose hands he had firmly shaken now ran with abandon from the one they once called pastor, shepherd, and friend.

  The dream had faded as quickly as it had appeared. Hattie now pondered the scene that had played like a movie in her dream. Was the pedestal they had placed him on too high and unstable? Everyone knew a fall from so high was inevitable, but still they had insisted Hezekiah take the place of honor above their heads and beyond their reach. What mortal could survive at such heights? she thought. How could his soul find peace at elevations so dangerously close to the sun?

  Hattie sat still under the glow of the lamp with her feet planted firmly on the floor and hands resting on the open pages of the Bible.

  “Hold on, Pastor Cleaveland,” she said softly. “I’m praying for you.”

  Samantha drove her car into the parking lot of the church. She retrieved her purse from the seat and walked briskly through the corridors toward Catherine’s office.

  Catherine Birdsong was sitting behind her desk. She wore a green skirt and a white ruffled blouse with a floral scarf around her neck. She looked like a woman who wrestled daily in front of her mirror to find a look befitting her station in life as chief operations officer to a prominent church.

  A large, curved desk surrounded Catherine. The walls were covered with plaques that the church and pastor had received over the years. A fax machine and copier sat in the corner, and Catherine’s desk held a computer, telephone, and pad.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Cleaveland,” she said to Samantha, who was standing in her doorway. “Pastor Cleaveland hasn’t arrived yet. He called earlier and said he would be late.”

  “I’m not here to see Hezekiah. I’m here to see you.”

  Catherine saw the familiar hint of anger in Samantha’s eyes. She adjusted her chair in preparation to stand. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  “Yes.” Her voice began to escalate. “You can tell me why you’ve been covering for Hezekiah when I call and he’s not here. Why you’ve never mentioned to me that he’s been unable to account for his whereabouts lately, and why do you think it’s in your job description to interfere in my marriage?”

  Catherine’s eyes widened. Her knees shook as she braced herself on the desk and stood. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about. I—”

  Samantha cut her off. “Don’t lie to me. You know exactly what I’m talking about. You are not to decide what information I should and should not have about my husband or this church. I knew this wasn’t going to work out when I first met you. I knew you wouldn’t fit in here.”

  Catherine could not speak. She found her throat was contracting as she tried to sputter out her defense. “I…I never…”

  “Don’t bother. I don’t want to hear anything you have to say. It’s over. You’re fired. I want you out of here by the end of the day, and you better leave every stapler, paper clip, and pen, or I’ll have the police at your door to get them back.”

  Samantha clutched the purse under her arm and stormed out of the office.

  Catherine sat down as the telephone rang. It was impossible for her to contain her tears. She felt as though breath had been snatched from her lungs by an incubus that had descended from the steeple of the church. The ringing of her unanswered telephone echoed through the empty halls of the building.

  The Los Angeles Chronicle newsroom was busy as usual. Loud conversations mingled into an indecipherable buzz through the long, windowless room. Sounds of clanging computer keyboards, whirring copy machines, and ringing telephones flooded the space. The anonymous faces behind the stories that chronicled life in the city worked furiously to meet yet another deadline.

  Lance Savage sat at a corner desk with his eyes on a glowing computer screen. His fingers tapped furiously at the keyboard, making the final revisions to the article he had toiled over for the last six months:

  When confronted in his office at New Testament Cathedral, Pastor Cleaveland refused to comment on the allegations of the one-year affair with Mr. St. John.

  Sources close to Pastor Cleaveland have confirmed that he has been seen on numerous occasions going into St. John’s home in the Adams District. St. John has not returned calls to the Los Angeles Chronicle.

  Lance paused as he read the last line on the computer screen. He had, in fact, never attempted to contact Danny. Hezekiah’s shouting face flashed in his mind. He had denied the allegations so adamantly that a trace of doubt prevented Lance from further typing. What if Cynthia is lying? he thought. What if this Danny person is just a cousin or a family friend?

  There had been no doubt concerning the relationship with the young outreach worker until the explosive confrontation with Hezekiah. But the look in Hezekiah’s eyes, the indignation in his voice, caused Lance to hesitate. Had he overlooked some important piece of evidence?

  Lance had questioned Cynthia Pryce’s motives when she first contacted him with the unbelievable story six months earlier.

  “Mrs. Pryce,” he had asked when they spoke on the telephone months earlier. “Why are you coming forward with this story? You know if this is true, Hezekiah will be forced to step down as pastor.”

  “I know,” she replied. “But I can’t sit by any longer and watch the Cleavelands waste so much of God’s money building that horrible shrine to themselves. That money could be used to do so much good in the world. It’s time someone exposed them for the immoral and greedy people they are.”

  “So what is his alleged lover’s name, and how did you find out about him?” Lance asked, making no attempt to conceal his skepticism.

  “His name is Danny,” she answered confidently. “He’s a homeless-outreach worker. I found out about it by accident.”

  “By accident?” Lance asked.

  “Yes, by accident. I was in a meeting with Hezekiah and several other people in the church conference room, and Hezekiah needed a document he had left on his desk and asked me if I wouldn’t mind getting it for him. When I went into his office, his computer was on. There was a half-written love letter to Danny on the screen. I did a search for other e-mails sent to that address and found dozens of disgusting messages they had sent to each other. I printed as many as I could. I didn’t have time to print them all because Hezekiah was waiting for me to return to the meeting. You can see them, if you don’t believe me.”

  Lance had thoroughly investigated the story after the conversation with Cynthia. He reviewed all the e-mails between Hezekiah and Danny. Several telephone calls to agencies that serve the homeless in Los Angeles led him directly to Danny St. John. He even followed Hezekiah’s limousine one evening to the house in the Adams District and saw Danny for the first time as he greeted his illustrious guest at the door.

  Lance had also secretly followed Danny on his rounds for two weeks. Through the parks, under freeway passes, to homeless shelters, and to the emergency room at Los Angeles General Hospital, where the young man had accompanied a woman who later died from an overdose of heroin.

  From a safe distance, ducking behind buildings, cars, and lurking in the shadows, Lance marveled at Danny’s gentle manner. Without fail, he held the scab-covered hands and patted the weary backs of disheveled men and women whose singular existence was never acknowledged by housed residents of the city. They were simply called “the homeless,” a lumbering beast roaming the city. Danny was the embodiment of the compassion that the creature craved so desperately.

  Lance could not bring himself to confront Danny after all he had witnessed. He didn’t want to disturb the gentle spirit he’d seen wandering the streets with the green backpac
k on his back, bending down to touch the weary shoulders of so many destitute people. Lance grew surprisingly fond and, against his better judgment, protective of the Danny he had come to know during those two weeks.

  Moisture began to accumulate in the palms of his hands. The toxic words begged for closure as his eyes focused again on the computer screen. I don’t have a choice, he thought. I’ve got to interview Danny, or I don’t have a story.

  Danny’s weekly outreach schedule was predictable. He arrived at the homeless center on Central Avenue. There he would encourage members of the large crowd to visit the city’s free clinic, where their myriad wounds and infections could be treated.

  The large, open space was busy with activity. Men in tattered clothes and worn-out shoes sat transfixed in front of a large television screen, watching The Today Show. In the facility’s shower area, women made futile attempts at washing away the streets’ grime, while others slept in crumpled heaps on the floor, preparing for another night of aimless wandering through the city.

  He walked through the room, searching for those in obvious need of medical attention: the man nursing a swollen foot, the woman cradling a bruised arm, or the old lady cowering in a corner with an open wound on her emaciated and frightened face. There was never a shortage of candidates for his services.

  Danny spotted a man limping through the crowd. His pant leg was torn, exposing a deep gash on his right leg. “Excuse me, sir,” Danny said, approaching the man. “That cut looks pretty bad. You should have a doctor look at it at the free clinic.”

  The man turned around slowly, attempting to maintain his balance. His white hair pointed in every direction from beneath a red bandanna. A scraggly yellow-stained mustache dipped in and out of his mouth as he spoke. “Who are you?” he asked in a raspy voice.

  The smell of alcohol and stale breath met Danny’s nose immediately. “My name is Danny.” He smiled disarmingly. “I work for the Homeless-Outreach Team. I can make an appointment for you with a doctor, if you would like.”