“How long have you been drinking?” asked Dr. Ron.
“Since I was about ten, I guess. I don’t drink that much, though.”
“Looked like you had a lot to drink when the paramedics rolled you out of your penthouse last month,” said one of the other youths. “You looked like shit in that oxygen mask on the news, by the way.”
“I saw that too,” blurted another member. “Your father must have shit bricks when he saw the news. Guess he won’t be running for president anytime soon.”
There was more laughter from the group.
“How did your father react, Ian?” Dr. Ron asked.
“He, well, he was cool about it.... I mean, he was upset and everything. My mom freaked out, though. She said if I didn’t come here, she was going to send me to military school.”
Seven of the eight in the group told similar stories. Privilege, unlimited access to credit cards, minimal adult supervision, heroin overdoses, multiple sex partners, and numerous encounters with the law, all of which were neatly brushed under the rug by brooms made of money and power.
Dr. Ron looked in the direction of the one person in the room who had not spoken, and said, “I guess you’re the last one, Jasmine. Why don’t you tell us about your family?”
All the members looked sympathetically in her direction. Jasmine did not speak.
“I know it’s difficult for you, Jasmine, but the only way you’re going to make any progress is if you talk about it,” Dr. Ron said gently. “Remember, you’re among friends here. Everyone has a similar story to yours.”
Jasmine looked in his direction. Her eyes were still puffy from weeks of crying. “Is that right?” she said coldly. “Who else in this group had their father killed in front of millions of people? Who else tried to commit suicide, only to have some son-of-a-bitch doctor pump their stomach and bring them back to this place?”
The room was silent. The hands stopped shaking, sandals stopped clapping the tile, and bodies stopped squirming in the seats.
“We all realize that part of your story is unique, Jasmine,” Dr. Ron said softly. “But the process of healing is the same for all of us, regardless of what we’ve been through.”
“He’s right, Jasmine,” said the ringed-nosed Rory. “I know I sound like a bitch sometimes, but I have to admit it does help to talk about it. It’s nice to get the shit out in the open so other people can smell it, too, and sometimes they can tell you it doesn’t smell as bad as you thought it did.”
All eyes were still on Jasmine. She looked to the floor at the checkerboard tile, then to the skull hanging over the fireplace. After silent moments she said in a whisper, “My mother hasn’t called me since I’ve been here. She’s too busy saving the fucking world. She didn’t love my father. As a matter of fact, I think she hated him. The only time they weren’t arguing was when the cameras were on.”
“How was your relationship with her?” Dr. Ron asked.
Jasmine released a pained chuckle and replied, “I don’t have a relationship with my mother. The only time she paid any attention to me was when she trotted me out in front of the church or the cameras. I’m a stage prop. Most of the time she doesn’t even know or care if I’m in the house. I was raised by nannies, housekeepers, and security guards.”
“How about your dad? What was that relationship like?” Dr. Ron asked, pressing on.
“I loved my father, and I know he loved me. But he was always so busy too. I remember when I was a kid, he used to take me with him everywhere. But . . .” Jasmine paused to clear her throat and stifle a tear and then continued. “But the church kept getting bigger and bigger. Then the television thing took off. After a while I just got left behind. There would be weeks when I would only see him on Sunday morning in church.”
“Jasmine,” said the boy with the Rolex watch. “Your mom must care about you. She sent you here, didn’t she?”
Again Jasmine chuckled. “She sent me here because she didn’t want anyone to find out I tried to commit suicide. She didn’t want it getting out that the daughter of the perfect Samantha Cleaveland swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills and had to have her stomach pumped. When she shoved me in the car with her driver, she told me to tell anyone who asked that I was staying with family friends in Malibu. She didn’t even bother to ride to the airport with me.”
It was 8:20 on Thursday evening. The board of trustees sat nervously around the table in the recently christened Pastor Hezekiah T. Cleaveland Memorial Conference Room. The special closed meeting had been convened at the request of Reverend Kenneth Davis. The only item on the agenda was the selection of the permanent pastor of New Testament Cathedral.
Two armed security guards in full uniform were posted outside the door, with strict orders not to allow anyone to enter the room. A silver pitcher of water, five glasses, and a stack of neatly folded cloth napkins sat untouched on a side console. The shades on the two glass walls that looked onto the grounds of the cathedral were drawn. The room, which could easily accommodate fifty people, felt claustrophobic, even though there were only four people sitting in the thirty leather chairs around the table.
Kenneth sat at the head of the table as the convener of the meeting. Hattie Williams’s wooden cane rested on the conference table. Her purse, filled with Kleenex, peppermints, and a pocket Bible, rested on her lap. Reverend Percy Pryce sat to her left, three chairs down. Despite his best attempts at appearing calm and detached, the moisture on his upper lip betrayed the churning in his stomach.
Kenneth nervously checked his watch. Scarlett Shackelford sat stiffly three chairs to his right. The pills she had taken before leaving her home that evening had effectively erased the remains of her shattered emotions.
“I don’t think she’s coming,” Kenneth said, checking his watch again. “It’s already twenty past eight. We were supposed to start at eight o’clock.”
“Maybe we should start without her,” Percy said softly.
“She’ll be here.”
All heads turned to Hattie Williams.
“How do you know that?” Scarlett asked coldly.
“Because she’s already in the building,” Hattie said. “I can feel her.”
Scarlett rolled her eyes and said impatiently, “I say we call the meeting to order right now and get this over with.”
As she spoke, the security guard swung one half of the double doors open and Samantha appeared in the threshold. Kenneth and Percy leapt to their feet, while Hattie and Scarlett remained seated. Before entering, Samantha made eye contact with everyone at the table.
“Good evening, brothers and sisters,” she said confidently. “I apologize for my lateness, but I was attending to church business. Please sit down, brothers.”
Kenneth walked to the console and poured a glass of water. “Would anyone else like a glass before we get started?”
A chorus of “No” and “No thank you, Reverend,” followed, and he made his way back to the head of the table.
Samantha sat four chairs to the right of Scarlett, which placed her farthest from the head of the table. She crossed her legs and leaned back in the high-backed leather chair.
Kenneth placed the glass of water beside a single sheet of paper, five pens, a stack of index cards, and a small tape recorder. After pressing the RECORD button, he said, “I now call this special meeting of the Board of Trustees of New Testament Cathedral to order at 8:25 P.M. on this day of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Thank you all for coming at such short notice. As you know, we are convened to decide an issue of the utmost importance. The sole agenda item is who will serve as the permanent pastor of New Testament Cathedral.”
Samantha raised her hand and was immediately acknowledged by Kenneth.
“I would like to know what prompted this sudden need to appoint a permanent pastor,” Samantha said calmly. “It was my understanding that I would be given ample time to demonstrate to this body and the congregation at large that I am fully capable of serving in that position on
a permanent basis. Is one month the trustees’ idea of ‘ample time’?”
No one spoke as Samantha waited patiently to see who would lead the charge. Finally, Percy leaned forward and clasped his hands together on the table. “Pastor Cleaveland,” he said, clearing his throat. “This is in no way a reflection on how we feel about your leadership during this trying time. I think I speak for us all when I say under the circumstances we feel you have done an amazing job in holding the congregation together and keeping the vision of Pastor Cleaveland alive and on track.”
“Then what is this all about?” Samantha asked. This was punctuated by a flick of her French-tipped nail on the table.
Kenneth stepped in. “It’s just some of us feel we may have not fully factored in your feelings when we placed you in the position. We . . . I mean I feel we may have acted too hastily, and selfishly, I might add. You just lost your husband, the center of your life. Reverend Pryce is willing to step in and give you the time you and Jasmine need to—”
“Reverend Davis, I am very aware that I just lost my husband,” Samantha interrupted, “but contrary to popular belief, he was not the center of my life. God is the center of my life, as I hope He is yours. I loved my husband, but I also love New Testament Cathedral. I helped found this church when it was in a storefront on Imperial Highway. Before any of you ever heard of the Cleavelands or the Cleavelands had ever heard of any of you.” Samantha leaned into the table. Her tone became firmer, and the words came more rapidly as she spoke. “Hezekiah and I built this ministry from the ground up, and now you think just because he’s gone, you can snatch it from under my feet.”
“Now hold on, Reverend Cleaveland,” Percy said, jumping in and gesturing with both hands. “No one is trying to snatch New Testament away from you. We all recognize the significant contributions you have made to this church, and we all appreciate everything you’ve done to make New Testament what it is today. We’re only thinking about what’s best for you. That’s all. This is not an indictment against you.”
“You appreciate my contributions,” Samantha said snidely. “I don’t need your appreciation, Percy. It means nothing to me. Let me ask you something. How many millions of dollars have you brought into the ministry this year? How many new members have you brought into the church?”
Percy stiffened his back and said, “This isn’t about money. It’s about doing what’s right by you. Hezekiah would have wanted us to look out for you, and by placing you in this position prematurely, we have failed him. You can wait a few years, can’t you? Give it time, Samantha. You need time to heal.”
“Let’s be honest, Percy. This isn’t about me at all. It’s about you, isn’t it? Did your wife put you up to this?” Samantha said, looking him directly in the eye. “Because let’s face it, you don’t have the guts to come up with a ridiculous plan like this on your own. Hezekiah always said you were a small-minded, weak little man, and I see now that he was right.”
“That’s uncalled for, Samantha,” Kenneth interjected. “Please, I know this is a difficult conversation for us to have, but let’s at least try to be civil with each other.”
“Civil? You expect me to be civil when you jackals have plotted behind my back to steal my church. Well, let me say to you all, if you think you’re going to pat me on the head and brush me aside, you are sadly mistaken.”
Kenneth cleared his throat and said gently, “I’m afraid we do have the authority, Samantha. According to church bylaws section IIA, it is the responsibility of this body to select the pastor.”
Kenneth reached for the single piece of paper in front of him and read it aloud. “A pastor shall be chosen and called whenever a vacancy occurs. A Pastor’s Selection Committee shall be appointed by the church—that’s us—to seek out a suitable pastor. The pastor’s election shall take place at a meeting called for that purpose. That’s this meeting. The pastor—for the time being, that’s you, Samantha—shall be an ex officio member of all church standing committees, except the Pastor’s Selection Committee.”
Kenneth returned the paper to the table and said, “Because you are the interim pastor of New Testament Cathedral at the time this agenda item will be called to a vote, you will, unfortunately, not be allowed to vote on this matter.”
“May I speak?” Scarlett said loudly.
Kenneth leaned back, relieved that someone else had entered the fray. “Please, Sister Shackelford, go ahead. You have the floor.”
Scarlett spun her chair to face Samantha and said, “I’m not basing my vote on you or your feelings. I actually don’t think you need time to heal. Do you know why? Because I think you’re relieved that he’s gone.”
“Sister Shackelford!” Kenneth shouted.
“Let me finish,” Scarlett said deliberately. “My decision is based on the fact that I don’t think you are fit to be pastor. You are an evil woman who has demonstrated over the years that you are more than willing to destroy anyone and anything that stands between you and whatever it is you want at the time. New Testament Cathedral deserves better than that. God deserves better, and I know I deserve better. I’m ready to call this to a vote.”
With her final words Scarlett spun her chair back to its original position. Samantha sat stunned and speechless.
Kenneth held his breath, waiting for Samantha to respond, but she remained silent. Kenneth then leaned forward and said, “We haven’t heard from everyone. Mother Williams, do you have anything to add before we call for a vote?”
Hattie remembered the vision she saw in her garden of Samantha standing in the pulpit with thousands of lost souls standing at her feet, crying and raising their hands to the heavens. She clutched the handle of her cane and simply said, “I have nothing to add. I’m ready for the vote.”
“Very well then,” Kenneth said, reaching for the index cards and pens. “Please write your choice for pastor of New Testament Cathedral on these cards. Fold your card in half and pass it back to me when you’re ready.”
“May I ask a question before we vote?” Samantha said calmly.
“The discussion is over,” Scarlett said. “Let’s vote please.”
“Hold on, Scarlett. Let her speak. Go ahead, Samantha. You have the floor,” Kenneth said, leaning back in his chair.
Samantha looked to Percy and said, “Reverend Pryce?”
“Yes?” he said suspiciously.
“Do you know someone named Lance Savage?”
Kenneth jerked forward in his chair and lunged toward the tape recorder. He quickly pressed the STOP button and, in doing so, knocked over his glass of water.
“Oh God, I’m sorry,” he blurted out. Water splattered down the center of the table, soaking the single white paper and forming a puddle around the tape recorder. Kenneth jumped from his seat and ran to the console for the cloth napkins. When he returned, the water had begun to drip onto his chair. Kenneth dabbed and blotted the table, the chair, and around the base of the tape recorder until much of the spill had been absorbed.
Samantha watched him curiously and noted the unexpected reaction to the name Lance Savage.
I’m so sorry, everyone,” Kenneth said with a shaky voice. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to do it. It was an accident. I’m . . . I’m sorry.”
Percy retrieved more napkins from the console and wiped the remaining drops of water while coolly saying, “It’s all right, Reverend Davis. Calm down. It was just a little accident. Calm down.”
Kenneth sank back into the damp leather chair and said through labored breaths, “Samantha, I don’t see what that has to do with the matter on the table.”
Samantha returned her gaze to Percy. “Answer my question, Reverend Pryce. Do you know Lance Savage?”
Percy looked helplessly to Kenneth and then back to Samantha and said, “No . . . I don’t believe I know anyone by that name.”
“From Kenneth’s reaction I think you do.”
“You’re stalling, Samantha. What does this have to do with anything?” Scarlett s
aid impatiently.
“To be perfectly honest, Scarlett, I’m not sure. But I’m curious. You see, my assistant gives me a monthly report on the church telephone records. I like to know if anyone is making any unauthorized calls. We had a problem with that a few years ago. You remember that, don’t you, Mother Williams? Anyway, in doing so,” Samantha continued methodically, “she noticed two calls were made to a Lance Savage.”
Samantha looked around the room and said, “Did I forget to mention Mr. Savage was the Los Angeles Chronicle reporter who was found murdered in his home on the canals in Venice.”
She then looked back to Percy and said, “The calls were made from your extension to his cell phone and home. And, ironically, they were made on the very same day that he was murdered. Quite a coincidence, don’t you think? I’ve been meaning to ask you why you called him, but I’ve been so busy burying my husband and running the church.”
There was silence in the room. All eyes were now on Percy. Kenneth sat stiff in his seat. The remnants of the spilled water soaked the seat of his pants. Beads of sweat formed on his brow, and his heart pounded in his chest.
“Looks like you might not remember right now. That’s okay, though, because you see, if I’m not going to be pastor any longer, I’ll have plenty of time on my hands to solve little mysteries like this.” Samantha leaned back in her chair and said with a smile, “All righty then, Reverend Davis, I think I have my answer. Now, let’s get on with that vote.”
Kenneth’s hand shook as he passed the cards and pens to Hattie, Scarlett, and Percy. He kept one for himself. He used a dry napkin to wipe the sweat from his brow, only to have it be replaced by even more.
Scarlett was the first to hand back her folded card. Hattie was next. Percy’s hand rested on the table, with the tip of the pen suspended only centimeters above the card. Scarlett, Hattie, and Samantha watched him as the pen finally began to glide along the surface of the card. He stopped and started several times before he finished. He then opened his fingers slightly, and the pen dropped to the table with a thud that echoed off the walls of the conference room.
When Sunday Comes Again Page 21
