“He’s so sweet,” Clarice said.
Veronica’s aunt Beatrice appeared on the arm of Forrest Payne. Beatrice wasn’t happy to be in a house of worship that went easy on sin and was largely Holy Ghost–free, but she was pleased enough to finally have a preacher in the family that she was willing to tolerate a few hours at a substandard church. She accepted kisses from Veronica and Sharon and was introduced to Apollo.
At the sight of her great-grandnephew, Beatrice let out a squeak of astonishment. She’d seen countless pictures, but she had never had the opportunity to experience him in the flesh. “He is truly something,” she said.
Forrest patted Apollo’s head and drew Veronica’s ire by coming too near her in his yellow tuxedo, the brightness of which caused Veronica to recede into the shadows, even as she stood, in all her pinkness, in a circle of sunlight. To Veronica’s relief, the Supremes, Forrest, and Beatrice soon headed into the sanctuary. They were replaced by other members of the congregation, who stepped into Veronica’s patch of sun to wish her luck.
When the crowd thinned to just a few stragglers, Sharon turned to her mother and said, “That was the rudest thing I have ever seen.”
“I know,” Veronica said. “It makes you wonder why you even bother to get dressed up. All the money I put into looking like this, and nobody said a thing.”
“I’m talking about Apollo. Did you hear what they called him?”
“They all said he was cute,” Veronica replied.
“No, they most certainly did not. Aunt Beatrice said my son was ‘something.’ Odette called him ‘extraordinary.’ Barbara Jean said he was ‘all boy.’ Nadine Biggs called him ‘precious.’” Saving the worst for last, Sharon added, “Clarice said that he was ‘sweet.’”
Veronica and her daughter both understood that sweet was merely a code word well-raised people used to describe ugly babies. “Why use an unkind word like ugly when sweet says the same thing so nicely?” her late mother had always maintained. Like saying “bless your heart” when you meant “kiss my ass,” it was basic good manners.
Clement, sensing an oncoming tempest, offered, “I’m sure they didn’t mean anything by it. People get careless with their words sometimes.”
“They meant it, all right,” Veronica said. “Monsters, each and every one of them.”
She was about to elaborate when the church secretary appeared. Gently touching Veronica’s arm, she said, “Sister Swanson, you should make your way to the pulpit. It’s baptism week. You know how that can drag on if you get behind.”
As Veronica walked down the side hallway that led to the sacristy behind the altar, she was unable to think of anything but the unjustified attack she had just endured. The church secretary rattled off some last-minute details about the order of the day’s events and the baptismal procedure. Veronica barely heard her. She was busy reliving the episode in the lobby.
Veronica was so angry that her body shook as she tried to contain her fury. The church secretary noticed her shuddering as she fastened the pastor’s microphone to Veronica’s collar. Mistaking the trembling for nervousness, she said, “Don’t be scared. I’m sure you’ll do fine. Just remember to tap the button on the microphone to turn it on.”
As Veronica stepped through the side door that opened onto the dais and made her way to the red velvet pastoral throne at its center, she went over all the things she could remember having heard about Apollo over the past months. She couldn’t recall a single “cute,” “handsome,” or “gorgeous” among the reactions to his photographs.
Her mood deteriorated further when she looked out into the crowd and saw that, contrary to her instructions, her son-in-law had found seats in the sixteenth row of pews, fourth from the back. Veronica took a moment to count and recount each row, because she wanted to have her facts in order when she confronted him about his ineptitude at supper later that afternoon.
So great was her irritation with her son-in-law’s inability to follow simple instructions that Veronica threw up her hands in a gesture of frustration. In the process, she whacked her grand hat, pushing it back on her head and dislodging one of the hat’s fruits. The crystal peach rolled across the floor and was crushed—intentionally, Veronica suspected—beneath the heel of a fellow associate pastor’s shoe. The hat’s two sequined doves slipped down onto the ostrich feathers and fell upon each other in an arrangement that looked as if they were in the process of mating. This was immediately noticed by a pair of adolescent boys, members of the children’s chorus seated directly behind her. The boys giggled and elbowed each other until their choir director noticed what was going on. He tapped Veronica on the shoulder and said, “Excuse me, Sister Swanson. I hate to tell you, but your hat has gone pornographic.”
Veronica turned to the choir director and thanked him, even though she felt that the smirking expression on his face conveyed an unseemly amount of prurient pleasure. Adjusting her hat, she added, “Bless your heart.” As she said it, she glared at him in a way that let him know which interpretation of “bless your heart” she meant.
On the monthly baptism day at the church, new members were presented to the congregation at the beginning of the morning service. Before proceeding to the dressing rooms, where they could change into robes for their submersion in the baptismal pool behind the choir stand, they were invited to testify about their salvation. This Sunday, there were two candidates for baptism, and both of them chose to address the assemblage.
The first new member was a very old man who spoke of how he had been attending services at First Baptist for years and was just now getting around to being baptized because the Angel of Death had spoken to him in a dream and told him to get his house in order. The man’s story of late-life salvation was the kind the congregation usually enjoyed, but he soon revealed himself to be a touch senile. He described, at great length, how the Angel of Death had resembled Sammy Davis Jr., illustrating his point with an energetic rendition of “Mr. Bojangles.” The elderly man would have gone on for hours if Veronica hadn’t cued the organist to begin playing so the secretary could discreetly guide him away from the lectern.
Next, a girl of fifteen stood before the church and thanked her parents for providing her with strong moral leadership. She smiled innocently and swore that she would try to be more Christlike every day. It was a lovely sentiment, but everyone in the church, except the girl’s parents, knew that she had a reputation for being a pill popper and the most promiscuous student in her high school. Veronica had heard from multiple sources that the teenager had bragged for months that her Christian rebirth was merely a ploy to get a new car for her upcoming sixteenth birthday. The girl’s gullible parents sat smiling like idiots as they ate up every word their daughter said.
The church secretary made the weekly business announcements and read the names on the sick list. When she finished, Veronica took her place at the lectern.
Serenely smiling down at the congregation, Veronica said, “I’d like us to reflect upon the parable of the Good Samaritan. Please open your Bibles to Luke 10:25.”
She stopped. Struck by a moment of divine enlightenment, she understood the cause of all her troubles. It was pride, the bitter fruit of the thorny vines of vanity, lust, and envy that had taken root in the church. Clearly, all of the people who had insulted her and her innocent grandson had been corrupted by the sin of pride. Why had it taken her so long to see it?
Having solved this mystery, Veronica felt her spirit lightening. Her anger mixed with something close to elation. Abandoning her planned remarks, she said, “No. Let’s turn to Proverbs.” She opened the Bible on the lectern and read, “‘Where pride comes, then comes dishonor. Pride goes before destruction, and a haughty spirit before stumbling.’” Then she quoted from the Book of James. “‘God is opposed to the proud, but gives grace to the humble.’”
She fixed her eyes on Nadine Biggs in the first row of pews, and said, “The prideful drip with hypocrisy and will not be corrected, even as they wal
low in depravity.” She glanced over her shoulder at the choir director to make sure he knew she hadn’t been deceived by his pious act. She glared at Odette and pronounced, “Pride can cause people to stew in jealousy for years and then act out in vile ways.” With her focus on Barbara Jean, she said, “It is pride that makes people forget their humble origins and pretend to be someone they are not.”
Several church members saw her staring into the pews and understood that her comments were targeted at specific individuals. Though no one was completely certain at whom the accusations were directed, the crowd gave in to human nature and took pleasure in hearing their neighbors being chastised. Loaded with passion and thinly veiled malice, this wasn’t the type of sermon often heard at First Baptist Church. But the congregation enjoyed the change of pace, rewarding Veronica with shouts of “Preach!” and applauding her rapid-fire invective.
Buoyed by the positive response of the audience, Veronica gave them more of the same. She left the dais and strutted through the aisles.
She stopped at the end of the row where Clarice sat. Frowning toward her cousin, she declared, “The bottomless insecurity of the prideful results in their desperate need for attention. They demand to be seen, but are determined not to see themselves. They are driven to acts of unkindness because pride has destroyed their ability to feel for anyone but themselves.”
She continued to march through the aisles of the church. She warned, admonished, and threatened her way from the first row to the last. When she reached the pew were her family sat, she took Apollo from his mother’s arms. “I dream of a world where my beautiful grandson can be free of the despicable consequences of pride. I pray for a world where the righteous will not be attacked by weak-minded and prideful sinners.”
Apollo screamed, causing everyone to jump or cover their ears. Several of Veronica’s next sentences were lost before she realized that Apollo had fastened his mouth to her microphone and shut it off. When she could be heard again, she worked her way back to the front of the church, picking out of the crowd people who had slighted her in some way, real or imagined, over the past half century, calling the miscreants to task for their pride.
As Veronica ended her sermon, a chorus of amens rose from the parishioners. With Apollo in her arms, she left the podium to change into her robe for the baptisms, tingling with pleasure from having successfully and forcefully made her point.
Clement left his seat in the sixteenth row and exited the sanctuary through a side door. He followed his wife down the hallway, catching up with her just in time to open the door to the pastor’s office for her and Apollo. “That was great,” he said as they walked inside.
She passed the baby to him. Then she removed her pink dress and tossed it over Clement’s shoulder, where it was promptly seized by Apollo. He pawed at it and screamed, “Gaah!”
“You should be proud of yourself. It wasn’t what you practiced at home, but it was a good talk.”
“Oh, my sermon was a damn sight better than they deserved. Especially after those lame-ass testimonies almost ruined the whole thing. Those two new Christians just about bored the old Christians to death.
“Neither of the other associate pastors had to deal with that. The new member that the first one got was a good-looking recovering crackhead with a voice like James Earl Jones who talked about how he found the Lord just as he was about to jump off a bridge. The second associate pastor got to baptize an identical-twins singing duo with voices like angels. They performed a hymn they’d written about finding the Lord beside their grandmother’s deathbed. It’s not fair. I get stuck with a crazy old man and a teenage slut who’ll forget all about Jesus as soon as her parents give her a new car. Well, at least she can drive herself to the VD clinic. Let me tell you, when this church is mine, there’s going to be a whole new quality-control system put in place.”
Clement said, “Calm down, honey. You’re still a little worked up over what Sharon thought those women said about the baby.”
“Believe me, I’m not done with them, either,” Veronica said. “Mean-spirited vipers is what they are. Those heifers had better be glad we’re in church. I only wish I’d called them out by name. It would’ve served them right.
“The nerve of them. Clarice, with that out-of-control ego of hers. I’ve got half a mind to skip that stupid concert. It’s not like she needs any more of a fuss made over her. And Odette. Have you ever seen a fat woman who thinks so much of herself? Barbara Jean is a whore’s daughter, for Christ’s sake, and the fools at this church are lining up to kiss her ass. And don’t get me started on Nadine Biggs. If I was screwing a man as trifling as that choir director, I’d be ashamed to show my face.”
She was interrupted then by a loud knock on the office door. Clement cracked open the door, and a distraught Sharon rushed into the room. Her husband followed her in.
Sharon spoke in a hushed tone: “Mama, your microphone is on.”
“What?”
“Your microphone is on, and they can hear every word you say in the sanctuary.”
Veronica turned toward Clement, who stood with her pink dress over his shoulder. Then she saw the offending microphone on her dress’s collar, twisting and turning in Apollo’s tiny hands. Before the mic went quiet, the rapt crowd in the pews heard Veronica bid good-bye to her days as a member of First Baptist Church with the words “Holy shit.”
The congregation sat hypnotized, hoping there would be more to come. They wouldn’t learn until a bit later that Veronica and her family had escaped through the back door, running to the parking lot down the same steps where Reverend Biggs had suffered his fall. As the audience waited, Odette turned to James and saw that he was biting his lower lip to keep from laughing. That one moment of eye contact between them was all it took. James let out a rumbling hoot that echoed around the quiet room. Odette followed with a squawk. Soon the entire church was filled with sounds of unrestrained hilarity.
Odette relished the sight of the first genuine grin to grace James’s face since the day he’d encountered El. And, after half a century of both overt and concealed hostility, she experienced unqualified feelings of affection toward Veronica.
CHAPTER 28
The glow James and I picked up from Veronica’s sermon stayed with us through our traditional post-church meal at Earl’s. We were still feeling good when we returned home and said good-bye to the health-care aide who’d kept an eye on El while we’d been out. El, James, and I were at the kitchen table eating what was left of the chess pie I’d made the night before when James surprised me by asking El about his—their—family. His questions had the air of an interrogation, but that was better than nothing.
El seemed eager to talk that evening, too. He told us about his life in a foster home with a crazy woman who was obsessed with snakes. He revealed that he’d never married again after Miss Ruth. He said he’d never had more children, though from his tone of voice, I suspected he wasn’t quite sure about that.
El said, “My mama and daddy both passed when I was a kid. Neither of them had any folks that I ever met. All that’s left now is my brother and sister.”
James and I both did a double take when we heard him mention siblings. El saw our shocked expressions and explained, “They ain’t blood relations. They’re my foster sister and brother, Lily and Harold. They run a little blues bar in Chicago.”
He entertained us with a cute story about singing louder than the elevated train. Then he took a bite of the chess pie and carried on for some time about how it was the best he’d had since leaving New Orleans. Looking back on it, I have a vague memory of feeling that he was buttering me up. But it’s easy to see it that way now. I was, and am, vain enough about my baking that I didn’t suspect his motives at the time.
He said, “Speaking of Chicago, I was hoping maybe I could ride along with you when you go. I’d like to spend a few days with Harold and Lily. I wouldn’t ask, except it’s hard for me to get around on my own right now.” He reached down an
d rapped his knuckles against the plastic prosthesis beneath his pant leg.
Trapping James and El in a car together for the eleven hours it would take to get to Chicago and back struck me as a wonderful idea. I wasn’t going to express an opinion about it, though. I couldn’t claim to be a changed woman, but the lessons from the fight James and I were just beginning to get past hadn’t been totally lost on me.
My interference wasn’t necessary. James said, “Sure. We’ll give you a ride.”
Excitement made me get ahead of myself. I said, “We’re all going to our friend Lydia’s restaurant for dinner in Chicago on Thursday night. Maybe you can join us. Your grandchildren will be there. Their families, too.” I glanced over at James to gauge whether I had gone too far, inviting El to come with us to the Thursday night dinner. But he didn’t seem bothered by the idea.
I should have shut my mouth then and celebrated, in silence, how well the day had gone. Instead, I said, “Lydia is Big Earl and Thelma McIntyre’s daughter. Did you know Big Earl?”
In my defense, it’s almost impossible to avoid a misstep when every inch of the terrain is littered with hidden dangers. Mentioning Big Earl was like heaving over a boulder. One name was spoken, and nasty bugs that weren’t used to the light of day scampered off in all directions.
El said, “Of course I knew Earl. He was a good guy.”
James jumped in with “Damn right, he was a good guy. He gave Mama a job at the All-You-Can-Eat before the place was breaking even. He kept us from starving. Big Earl took me fishing when I was a kid. Big Earl taught me how to shave. Big Earl showed me what it meant to be a man. Anything I’ve got, I owe to him. Big Earl McIntyre was like a father to me.” He said this last part slowly, making it sound exactly like the accusation it was.
I thought he would say more, but the storm soon passed. James and El ate the rest of their chess pie hunkered over their plates like convicts. There was no more talk of family. Neither of them said another word to the other that night.
The Supremes Sing the Happy Heartache Blues Page 21
