by Joe Derkacht
“If you’re complainin’, there’s always the bakery, you know,” Teddy said.
Cedric chuckled. “I feel guilty enough taking a vacation. What do you think I’d feel like if I quit the ministry to come work for you?”
Teddy laughed harder. “Guilt wouldn’t be the problem. Wait till you’ve swept floors all day.”
“Oh, starting me off at the bottom, huh?”
“Just like you always preach it, brother. You hafta start somewhere.”
“Now you know why the Lord has me where I am,” Cedric said, restraining a chortle lest he awaken Theodora. “Wife’s baby brother is a slave driver.”
Theodora, dozing in the back seat, wakened momentarily to murmur something about an itinerary. Passing red taillights and headlights flashing by from the opposite direction tormented her dreams. When she woke up at the airport, the harshly bright sodium vapor streetlamps were in her eyes, and a police car, lights flashing, flew by on some unknown emergency, sending a shiver down her spine. Cedric and her brother were handing off luggage to a skycap.
“Ready, sis?” Teddy asked, as he opened the door of the Cadillac for Theodora. He hugged her, and told her, “Don’t worry about that itinerary of yours.”
He tapped his temple with two fingers. “You just remember, it’s all up here.”
“Dopey,” she muttered.
He grinned into her bleary eyes. “Still too early for you, huh?”
“You just worry about the church,” she said. “Keep an eye on things. Don’t let everything go up in smoke just because Cedric and I aren’t there.”
“I love you too, sis,” he said, handing her off to Cedric. “See you in two weeks--give my love to that nephew of mine.”
With loving farewells still in his ears, he slid behind the wheel of the Cadillac and drove away. He was halfway home when he started laughing. Dopey. He’d forgotten her childhood nickname for him. He chuckled, too, about the itinerary tacked to his bulletin board at home. Unnecessarily, he thought, because except for the dates it was a duplicate of the one he and his wife had received from Mason, his nephew, when they flew to Orlando for their last vacation. Theodora’s son was no doubt a good engineer, but he wasn’t exactly creative. That itinerary was a virtual duplicate of one he sent to everybody who halfway threatened to visit him in Florida--ostensibly to see him and his wife but just as likely there to see the sights offered by Orlando and parts beyond.
Smart boy, that Mason, now he thought of it. No wasted time or effort. Make a tour of the Kennedy Space Center, see a launch, if one was scheduled. Catch a glimpse of the construction of Disney World. Check out Cocoa Beach. Drive out to the Keys or up and down either coast, and return to Orlando each night. He was an engineer. Why not produce a “cookie-cutter” itinerary for friends and relatives, maps and driving instructions included, especially if he couldn’t necessarily go along?
#
Swinging the church doors shut, Teddy pulled at the bronze-finished handles, double-checking to make sure the locks held, and slipped the keys into his coat pocket. Eleven o’clock on Wednesday night, yet there were people milling about the church steps and on the sidewalk. He smiled wearily, as he passed several different groups of choir members earnestly discussing the upcoming Winter Gospel Sing. What were their chances for a trophy? Had they worked hard enough? Had they pulled out all the stops? Would the judging be as poor as last year’s?
The Sing, as most people abbreviated it, was a statewide event among the black congregations. Many of Calneh’s church choirs, Baptist or otherwise, met each year at Alliance in a mock competition to prepare for the Sing. All of their questions would be answered the following weekend, when they met in Selma for the actual affair.
While grateful to have had little to do with the evening’s activities (allowing him time to work on a sermon for Sunday in Cedric’s office and to lock up afterwards), Teddy felt that since it was nonetheless Wednesday night, he had passed through a storm. Appropriately so, he thought, stepping around a puddle of standing water. The strong winds and rains of the past two days had died down only a few short hours ago. As he unlocked Cedric’s Cadillac for the drive home, he looked at the sky, happy to glimpse stars through the cloud breaks.
“One down,” he whispered, mentally crossing off the evening. He grunted, as he twisted around in his seat to judge the distance between Cedric’s Cadillac and a white Chevrolet parked too closely behind him. Maybe eight or nine cars remained in the entire parking lot, and some knucklehead still had to go and crowd its one reserved space. He dismissed thought of it, though, as he drove away, his mind focused on three more storms he must endure in the next two weeks: Sunday morning service was first, followed by the next Wednesday night and the following Sunday morning service. Thankfully, Bro. Wiggins conducted Sunday night services in Cedric’s absence. For perhaps the past eight to ten years, Teddy had filled in for his brother-in-law whenever he was ministering elsewhere--which was not to say he had as yet found preaching comfortable. The congregation was supportive but it was still a trial, likely as much for them, he was pretty sure, as it was for him. Duty in the pulpit was a terrible burden, like finding himself saddled with a giant stone laid across his back. Preaching made him want to throw up just thinking about it. While the song service was in progress, prelude to the preaching or main event, as he saw it, he sometimes felt himself on the brink of weeping. As might be expected, Cedric always said that was good, it made him depend all the more on God.
Easy for Cedric to say, when preaching for him was about as difficult as falling off a greased log. Could be Cedric was right, though, about depending on God; after his first few stumbling sentences, Teddy usually found the words flowed from his mouth like a stream freed from a logjam. There were even times he found himself able to go on without referring again to his notes.
If only Teddy had stayed a little longer, perhaps let the Cadillac’s heater warm up before he put the car in gear and drove from the parking lot. Maybe then he would have seen the flicker of light in one of the church’s basement windows. But maybe not, maybe he would have thought it was only his own headlights reflecting from the glass. Perhaps it was simply the sovereignty of God that he didn’t see that flicker of light and go to investigate; he might have gotten killed for his effort. But who really knows? Maybe he could have prevented something, saved himself a lot of nasty questions, especially the kind of questions people ask themselves when it comes to if only, or what might have been, or why oh why didn’t God tell me?
****
Chapter 20
If it was someone from the Klan or some other group of that stripe who started the fire at Alliance Baptist Church, they were none saying, none bragging it up. No one made any calls to either of Calneh’s TV stations, or to the newspapers, or any other media outlet, to take the credit. All that was really known was that the fire was terribly suspicious. Sensitive to the times, the Feds flew out a team of investigators from the ATF to conduct a blitzkrieg-style investigation. One of them remarked upon the faint smell of accelerant almost right away. After two days of sifting through the ruins, several empty cans of paint thinner were discovered scattered throughout the church basement with nearby, scorched pour marks characteristic of arson.
Channel 5’s chief (read that only) investigative reporter, Harley Beaufré, arrived at Rev. Champion’s front door Saturday morning, his favorite cameraman tagging along, ahead of anybody from the Feds or the Fire Marshal’s Office. Under normal circumstances, Cedric would not have allowed them inside his house (in his opinion, there were far too many people trying to get their faces on TV for the sake of vanity, including and especially preachers of the gospel); under extraordinary circumstances, he felt even less inclined to allow them inside. Seeing the two men at his white picket gate and instantly recognizing Beaufré’s face from the six o’clock news, he stepped outside to speak to them on the porch.
Harley, with an oily s
mile that worked on most of his victims, immediately suggested they hold the interview inside the house. Perhaps in the living room or the kitchen? The cameraman, habituated to acting as the reporter’s henchman, moved to step around the minister, but Cedric took a step back, blocking the way.
“No thank you,” he said to Beaufré, just like he would to any car salesman offering him a special, once-in-a-lifetime deal.
Alertly noticing Cedric’s eyes shift their focus to the street, Harley turned and saw official-looking vehicles appearing at the curb in front of the modest, shingle-sided house.
“Jack?” He said.
“Gimme a sec,” the cameraman answered, immediately setting the light stand aside and lifting his camera.
Harley didn’t waste any time on ID taglines. The Feds were entering at the gate, clad in their navy-blue, nylon ATF windbreakers, followed by two investigators from the State Fire Marshal’s office. He straightened his coat and tie and ran a hand through his silvery hair before glancing at his cameraman and then presenting his best profile.
“Reverend Champion, have you been told of the ATF’s determination of the cause of the fire that destroyed Alliance Baptist Church this past Wednesday night?”
Cedric plucked a snowy-white kerchief from the breast pocket of his suit and wearily polished his eyeglasses, which he rarely wore, whether preaching, teaching, or driving. Anyone close to him in his congregation would have been shocked at the deep shadows under his eyes. The fire officials had reached the porch, and having heard the question, glanced owlishly at one another, waiting for his answer. More than one held pen and clipboard prepared to record his remarks.
“No, I haven’t,” he said, pushing his glasses onto his nose and expertly stuffing the kerchief back into his pocket. A prouder or less congenial man might have been tempted to add, “But I suppose you’re here to tell me, Mr. Know-it-all TV reporter.” Cedric only waited, allowing Harley his dramatic moment.
“They’ve concluded it was arson,” he said, instinctively deepening his voice to try to match Rev. Champion’s low, rumbling bass. Almost, he had said the word arson with a note of triumph in his voice, but it didn’t work, not with his attempt at lowering his voice at the same time. The overall effect was one of pompousness, a not unfamiliar association in the minds of Channel 5’s viewers, when it came to Harley Beaufré.
Wisely, Cedric looked to the ATF officials for confirmation.
“Arson! Did you hear me, Reverend Champion?” Harley demanded, not wishing to share the moment or the shot with anyone else. Jack, the cameraman, often the recipient of Harley’s off-camera tirades, knew where to maintain focus.
“We have probable cause to believe it was arson,” an ATF man said, nodding and frowning as if in reluctant agreement.
Harley winced at the interruption. Minor editing would take care of the ATF. “Reverend Champion?” He spoke into his mike again and extended it to Cedric.
“I suspected as much,” replied Cedric with a deep sigh, aware that the man’s probable cause really meant positively beyond the shadow of a doubt.
“You did? Were there threats upon you or your church recently?”
“No,” he said, refraining from adding, “Not from the usual quarter.”
“But you suspected arson?”
“I didn’t know,” he said. “I just thought it was possible.”
“And that’s all?”
He nodded, not making a very good interview subject for Harley, who had hoped for a more emotional reaction.
“How soon will you be rebuilding?” Harley asked.
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” He asked, incredulous. “You mean depending on when the insurance money comes in, don’t you, Reverend Champion?”
“No,” he said, staring into the camera. “There’ll be no insurance money. The policy had--lapsed.”
Harley paused for effect. “You mean you didn’t believe in insurance?”
“I didn’t say that,” he explained patiently, as if to a child. “It wasn’t until yesterday we discovered there was a problem.”
Cedric wondered if anyone else could hear his heartbeat. Briefly, he felt as though he were standing apart from the group, watching from a distance as eight white men faced a lone black man. Cornered a lone black man, like he was the sacrificial lamb and they were wolves. Then he heard what seemed like a group exhalation, and he came back to himself. Ink pens were put away and clipboards lowered.
The drama of the moment was not lost upon Harley, who nevertheless felt free to manufacture drama whenever it suited his purposes. His bushy eyebrows, as silvery as the hair of his head, rose and spread like the wings of a bird in shock. A theatrical bird, in full plumage. After a nearly appropriate pause, he squared himself in front of the camera.
“Shock is what I’m feeling right now, here at Reverend Cedric C. Champion’s home, surrounded by ATF agents and members of the State Fire Marshal’s office. Shock is what I’m sure the rest of Calneh will feel when they learn of the unfolding tragedy surrounding the burning of Calneh’s Alliance Baptist Church. I’m Harley Beaufré, Channel 5 news.”
A few moments later, Cedric found himself gratefully alone, safe from the wolves at last--and from one hyena. He watched, able to breathe more freely, as the cars and vans left the curb, particularly glad that Harley really wasn’t very good at what he did. A few probing questions from the reporter might have obligated him to reveal that, in the wake of the fire, the church treasurer had also disappeared. It required no imagination to know what someone like Harley would have done with that added tidbit, linking scandal to tragedy.
As Cedric opened the door to his house, he caught sight of Theodora retreating to the kitchen. He followed her and took a seat opposite her at the dinette. She buried her face in a white hankie.
“It’s not your fault,” he said, reaching out to gently touch one arm.
“It is,” she answered through racking sobs. “I had a terrible feelin’ about it--I should have told you.”
He sighed, not knowing what to say. Ever since the phone call to them in Orlando early on Thursday morning, the words had not come easily.
“If I had just said something--listened to the Lord!” She wailed. “But no, I had to ruin it all. Couldn’t even let you have a nice vacation!
“And poor Teddy!” She cried, grief pouring from her like black clouds releasing a load of rain.
“You weren’t the one who lit the match, Theodora,” he said quietly. “And I don’t think Teddy did either, baby--no one’s blaming him.”
“It is my fault,” she said.
“Oh, so you did light the match,” he said, rolling his eyes in exasperation. Attempting to console her was more exhausting than preaching a month of Sundays. No matter what he said or how he said it, she just seemed to dig a deeper hole of guilt for herself. Holding her didn’t work, and not holding her didn’t work. Speaking softly didn’t work: neither did speaking firmly. Wiping her tears away didn’t work--nothing worked. Not even prayer, or food. In less than three full days, her clothing had started to loosen on her. If something didn’t happen soon, he would have to take her to a doctor.
“There’s always a Judas, and the Lord knows all about it,” he said, speaking softly. “You can’t do anything about it baby, and I don’t want to hear you cry no more.”
“I can’t just stop,” she protested.
“I think you can.”
“What can we do?” She wailed. “The church is gone--your books--everything!”
“I’ve tried to tell you,” he said, his voice husky. “It was only a building. We’re the church--people. We can just thank God no one was killed.”
He rose to his feet, and she looked up at him.
“What are you doing?” She asked.
“Gotta do somethin’--not this,” he said. “Not this sittin’ around.”
She dabbed at her tears, staring after him as he
left the kitchen. It was just like a man to think you could shut your emotions off at a whim, tell your heart to quit grieving. How many times had she told herself the very same things he had just said? The real question, though, was what was he to do about tomorrow and all the days to follow? What could he possibly do? Other than Jefferson Davis Elementary, which the school board refused to rent out to religious groups, it wasn’t like there were any buildings large enough in the area for Alliance’s use.
He could have walked to the church from his house, since Flowers Avenue was only several blocks away. But he drove, taking his black ’68 Caddy, which his beloved congregation had presented to him in celebration of 40 years of ministry. Yellow crime scene tape cordoned off the entire perimeter of the church. Nevertheless, he stepped over it and ascended to the concrete landing, where the oak doors had once stood. What did this charred, ravaged hulk of wood and stone have to do with Alliance Baptist? You might as well compare Heaven with hell!
Cedric’s intent had been to come to the church to pray and meditate about what he should do. Now that he stood on the ash-littered landing, he realized he had no desire to linger there, to loiter, while traffic slowed to goggle-eye the scene. Not when he had already delayed long enough in the past day and a half, whether in the company of Theodora, or in milling about the property with members of his congregation, numbly watching as the ATF did its work. Instead he again felt the urge to do something, to move, to put plans into action.
Down from the landing, he leaned against his car, one hand on its hood, and waited for traffic to clear. You could sell your Caddy, it occurred to him. As he crossed the street his mind leaped at the thought. In time he would have to replace it, but it wasn’t like he and Theodora couldn’t survive without a car for a while. The important thing was the couple of thousand dollars he could expect from its sale, the catalyst it would be to his people to give in order to see their church rebuilt.
But even if he had sold his car yesterday, it wouldn’t have been soon enough. He needed a building more than the cash to build one. And it so happened he knew just the building to use, a building near enough for him and his wife to walk to, one that would least inconvenience those in his congregation who did not own cars, one that was adequately commodious for Alliance Baptist’s usual Sunday and Wednesday crowds.
