I Say a Little Prayer (12 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

T
he
word got out. That old game of tell-a-phone or tell-a-sissy still held true. On the first Sunday in October, Abundant Joy was packed like a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Cherry Garcia. I couldn’t believe it when I walked out into the choir stand and saw people standing against the wall and in the aisles. I looked out the window and saw what looked like hundreds of people milling around the parking lot because the doors to the church were locked. When I came in earlier like the rest of the choir, the number of cars in the lot looked normal for Sunday. I was certain if the fire chief knew about the crowd, services would have been halted.

When I stood at the microphone to sing my solo, Vincent smiled and winked at me. I smiled back nervously as I spotted Skylar grinning and waving a white handkerchief. He was sitting next to Celia and Lontray, who were dressed like they might stop at the club on their way home from church.

The choir stood up at Vincent’s direction, and I sang Edwin Hawkins’s standard “Oh Happy Day” like it was the last song I was ever going to sing. The choir rocked with the chorus and several members got happy and passed out. The ushers rushed from the back of the church to fan them. It was like I was back home in Mississippi, where the pastor didn’t mind if the Holy Ghost came in and took over service.

When I finished my solo, I was so happy that I found myself trembling, with my hands raised in the air, and I couldn’t have brought them down if I wanted to. I found my way back to my seat and collapsed as another soloist took the microphone and kept the church and Holy Ghost going.

With his face beaming, Pastor Kenneth took to the pulpit. I could tell from the look on his face that he was surprised by the crowd.

“It looks like the Good Lord has spread the word about our little church. Can I get everybody to say ‘Praise God from whom all blessings flow?’”

“Praise God from whom all blessings flow,” the church repeated.

“Amen, amen,” Pastor Kenneth said as he closed his Bible.

He paused for a moment as he surveyed the crowd. I wondered if he could tell that the majority of the visitors were gay men and women.

“I had prepared my sermon on Tuesday,” he said. “But as I look out on the crowd and the way the Holy Spirit has anointed these wonderful singers, I feel like the Lord wants me to deliver a different message.”

Vincent and I exchanged nervous glances, and I was praying that Pastor Kenneth wouldn’t use this Sunday to preach his first “If you’re gay you’re going to hell” sermon.

“You know, in less than a month we will elect a new president of the United States, or reelect the current one. Now, I’ve heard that several churches in the area, our churches, are instructing their memberships on how to vote. When I hear this talk, I’m reminded of something on a poster I have in my office. It reads ‘What Would Jesus Do?’” Pastor Kenneth said as he moved his right hand in the air as if he was pointing out the words on a blackboard to the congregation.

Oh, please don’t go there, Pastor
, I thought to myself. Don’t have these kids turn on you.

“I tell you what Jesus would do, or at least what I think He would do. He would tell us that so many of our ancestors fought and died for our right to vote that we shouldn’t take that right too lightly. He would also tell us that we shouldn’t let the leaders of our churches take away that right. Telling us who to vote for essentially takes away our very precious right to vote. Can I get an Amen?” Pastor Kenneth shouted.

I don’t know what got into me, but I found myself leaping from my church seat, pumping my fist in the air, and saying, “Amen. Tell ’em, Pastor.” And I was not alone. The entire church broke into such a thunderous applause that I felt the church might crumble from the sound alone.

“Jesus would tell us that our votes were not for sale. That they couldn’t be used to fill the offering plates so that the ministers could drive cars that cost more than many of the houses we live in.”

One of the older members of the church, Sister Bertha, stood up with a fan in her left hand and shouted, “Preach, Pastor. You ain’t tellin’ nothin’ but the truth.”

Again the church joined in and erupted with “Amen” and “Preach, Pastor.”

About ten minutes later, Pastor Kenneth ended his sermon by telling the crowd that while it was important to listen to the leadership of the church, he and the rest of them were mere mortals.

“Put your faith in God, because He will never let you down. Don’t let man block your blessings. Can I get a witness?”

The church responded with a standing ovation, and Vincent eyed me and began playing “Oh Happy Day” again. I took that as my cue and returned to the microphone and began to sing once again.

After church, I was feeling so good I invited Skylar, Celia, and Lontray to join me at the over-the-top brunch at the Ritz-Carlton Buckhead. At fifty-five dollars a head, it was something I allowed myself to splurge on maybe twice a year to celebrate a birthday or a big month of sales.

Before I left church, I stopped in Pastor Kenneth’s office to tell him how much I enjoyed the service. He was ecstatic. Not because the sermon had been so well received but because he said the Sunday offering was three times what it normally was.

“I wish we could have those worshipers here every Sunday,” he said. I smiled to myself and whispered, “Me, too.”

While Celia and Lontray filled their plates at the seafood station with boiled shrimp, crab legs, and oysters, I got a Mexican-style omelet. Despite the array of different food stations, like one that featured fruits and cheese, a roast beef carving one, and one with pasta, Skylar arrived back at the table with California rolls, shrimp dumplings, and caviar.

The four of us ordered mimosas after Skylar explained to Lontray what they were, and we began to enjoy the delicious food. After a few bites, Celia looked over at me and said, “There sure were a lot of good-looking men at your church. Why didn’t you tell me that?”

“Tell you what?” I asked.

“About all the fine men who go to church. If I had known that, I would have gone to church instead of using Sundays to get my nails and toes done,” Celia said.

“I know that’s right,” Lontray said as she gave Celia a high five. “But did you notice how a lot of the women looked like men?”

Skylar and I gave each other the eye, while Celia said she hadn’t noticed because she was too busy looking at all the men.

“Maybe I got the wrong game plan, trying to find someone at the club to replace Marvin. Lontray, I’m going to get me some more of them shrimp with some of that white sauce. You want me to get you some?”

“Naw, girl, I’ve had enough seafood. You would think in a place this fancy a girl could get a fried chicken leg or some gravy,” Lontray said.

“Why don’t you try some of the caviar?” Skylar suggested.

“What’s that?” Lontray asked.

“Caviar? Oh, girl, it’s just divine. You must try it.”

“But what is it?”

“Well, if you must know, they’re fish eggs,” Skylar said.

“Those little black thangs are fish eggs? You mean from real fishes?”

“Of course real fish, and honey, you know I don’t do fish as a practice.” Skylar laughed.

“You selling that program to the wrong girl, Skylar. I ain’t even trying to eat no fish eggs. What else they got over there?”

“They have bacon and sausage over at the breakfast station. You can also get a fresh waffle made,” I said.

“Now you talking,” Lontray said as she got up and followed Celia.

A few seconds after the two left, Skylar shook his head and said, “Poor chile. You can take the bump fish out of the ghetto, but you can’t take the ghetto out of the bump fish.”

“Who are you talking about?”

“Lontray. She’s bump fish if I ever saw one. What you want to bet she got a switchblade in her purse?” Skylar asked. “Bump fish” is what Skylar called females who were not only ghetto but reveled in being that way.

“She’s harmless, and besides, Lontray is one of Celia’s best friends,” I said.

“And poor Celia. I mean, when will these so-called educated women learn that them men up in church don’t want them? Chile, I ain’t seen so many sissies since I was in Atlanta Airport on Labor Day weekend. I saw a few people up in there who needed to be throwing themselves on the altar,” Skylar said, and laughed.

“I guess it is kinda sad that women can’t tell when a man is gay or bi. I don’t guess that’s ever gonna change,” I said.

“You right about that. Women will never learn the power of a little lips, hips, and fingertips,” Skylar said. “But that’s fine with me, because that certainly leaves them at a disadvantage. Makes it easier for me to come in and steal their husbands.”

Skylar got up and headed toward the island of food, and I sat in silence. I wondered again why women as smart as Celia couldn’t or weren’t able to distinguish between a gay and a straight man. As someone who considered myself her friend, almost a big brother, would it be fair to tell Celia that the majority of men at the service were gay? Had I been deceptive when I asked her to come to church because we were having a special service to show how important gay people were to the black church?

Celia sat down at the table with a plate full of freshly cut meat and pasta.

“This is so good, Chauncey, thank you! I’m trying lamb for the first time,” she said, beaming.

“Glad to do it. Thanks so much for coming to church with me,” I said.

“Oh no, thank
you
. I don’t know why, but I was moved by something. I mean, it’s been a while since I went to church, but when I walked into your church this morning I felt a certain peace. It was like God knew I was coming and He was waiting there to greet me,” Celia said.

I didn’t say anything for a few moments as I savored Celia’s words and fought back my tears. Finally, I said, “He was there waiting for you. And I’m pretty certain He’ll be there if you ever go back.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

E
ven
with all the chaos in my life, I slept soundly and woke up earlier than usual with Damien on my mind. No, it wasn’t one of those rock-hard sex fantasies, but how much I really wanted to have a conversation with him. It didn’t matter if I spoke to him on the phone or face-to-face, although I believed that if I saw him, I’d be able to read his body language.

I got up from bed, brushed my teeth, and turned on the shower to let the water warm up. Then I walked into the little office off my bedroom. I checked my e-mail, looked at the news headlines, and was headed back to the bathroom for my shower when I noticed the pad with Damien’s number.

I picked it up and then quickly dialed the number. I listened to his greeting, and this time when I heard the beep, I said, “Yo, Damien, or should I say Bishop Upchurch. This is a voice from your past that would really like to speak with you. Hopefully, my voice hasn’t changed, so you know who this is. I can be reached at 404-555-3421 or 770-555-9834. Both are Atlanta numbers. Hey, it would be nice to reconnect,” I said before I ended the message, which I suddenly feared sounded dumb and needy. Still, I was glad I made the call.

As I showered, I wondered what it would be like to talk with Damien or see him in person. Would he ignore my calls, or would his curiosity about why I was calling him prompt a call? There was no way for him to know that I had been asked to sing on his opening night, or that I was even a member of Abundant Joy, unless Pastor Kenneth had said something. Would he set up a meeting with me? Would he bring the wife and kids to prove to me that he was now firmly on the other team?

When I stepped out of the shower, I grabbed a towel and moved to my dressing area. My radio was on V-103 because I loved the Frank and Wanda morning show. Not only could you hear good music, but they had witty conversation and jokes as well. Frank didn’t shy away from controversial topics, and he did a spiritual vitamin segment where he read something inspirational and followed it with a song from one of the more popular gospel artists. I loved starting my day this way, and it didn’t sound preachy or out of place on the popular R & B station.

But this morning, something very strange happened. It wasn’t Frank’s and Wanda’s voices I heard but Pastor Kenneth and Damien. With just a towel wrapped around my waist, I moved to my stereo system and turned up the volume. The two of them were telling Frank about the revival and how they hoped all of Atlanta would show up. “We hope to have so many people this year that next year we’ll have to move from the church to the Georgia Dome,” Pastor Kenneth said.

I sat on the edge of the bed and listened intently for Damien to say something hateful about gays, or about reclaiming our country, but all he talked about was how he and his wife were looking forward to visiting Atlanta and helping Pastor Kenneth make Abundant Joy one of the most powerful churches, not only in Atlanta but in the entire Southeast. Pastor Kenneth mentioned how the church had been packed the day before and if that kept happening he would be looking for larger space sooner.

The tone of his voice and the cadence of his words gave me goose bumps. I thought about Sister Esther and the testimony about her deceased son. Maybe it was time for me to start searching for a new church home.