I Say a Little Prayer (18 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

E
ven
though I was firm with my decision, I was a little nervous when I opened the door to Pastor Kenneth’s office. He was reading his Bible, and I laughed to myself when he stood up to greet me. Pastor Kenneth had on rust-colored suit pants, a white shirt, and a skinny tie that matched his slacks. I loved the fact that I had a minister who wasn’t worried about the latest fashion and took pride in being from the country.

“Brother Chauncey. Come on in, sir. I hope your lawyer found our contract fair,” he said as he extended his hand and pointed to a chair across from his desk.

“Good evening, Pastor Kenneth. Thanks for seeing me.”

“No problem. I always got time for my members. Have a seat.”

I sat down and placed both of my hands on the edge of his desk, one on top of the other.

“So you got the contract?” Pastor Kenneth asked.

“That’s what I need to speak to you about….” I paused for a few seconds and then I just blurted out, “I can’t do it.”

“Brother Chauncey, come on now. Do you want more money?”

“No, Pastor. This has nothing to do with money,” I said. I removed my hands from the desk, leaned back in the tight-fitting leather chair, and rested my hands on my thighs.

“What is it, then? I’ve dealt with agents and lawyers before. Is it your agent, or have you signed with a record label and they won’t let you do it? Oh, by the way, I understand you talked with Lucy. Was that a good contact?”

“Yes, sir, it was. I haven’t met with the singer she wanted me to meet with yet, but I have an appointment set up. Thanks again.”

“No problem. Now back to the revival. You know, this puts us in a tight spot with the event being only a couple of weeks away. It will be hard to get a singer of your caliber at this late date.”

“I know, and I’m really sorry. But I’ve prayed and prayed on this, and I think I’m doing the right thing.”

“Well, Brother Chauncey, if you’ve prayed on it and you feel like this is the answer that God has given you, then we will have to live with it. Doesn’t mean we like it, but the Good Lord doesn’t always give us what we want.”

“I feel pretty strongly about it,” I said.

“If it’s not too personal, would you mind sharing with me why you can’t do it? I mean, did I do something? Did Sister Vivian or any member of my deacon board do anything to offend you?”

“No, sir. Everyone has treated me wonderfully. But I would like to ask you something.”

“Sure. Ask me anything.”

“Why Bishop Upchurch?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why have him speak? I visited his Web site, and some of his views on things are very extreme,” I said.

“Bishop Upchurch and his wife, Grayson, are good, upstanding Christian people. I don’t agree with everything he says in some of his speeches, but he’s preaching the Word. I think we need to hear people like him, not only in the pulpit but in the Senate as well. We’re losing a generation of our youth because they don’t hear the message Bishop Upchurch and Sister Grayson are trying to spread.”

“So even though you don’t believe in everything he says, you think it’s okay for them to come and preach their hate to our congregation?” I asked angrily. I’d expected more from Pastor Kenneth. I didn’t want him telling me that I needed to hear the word of Damien and Grayson on how I lived my life.

“I don’t see it as hate, and neither does Sister Vivian. These are good people. I ask that you sit down with him and talk over some of his views before you make a final decision,” Pastor Kenneth said.

“Meet with him?”

“Yes. I mean, we can make it happen this evening. Bishop Upchurch is in town speaking at Morehouse, and he’s going to come by and share a meal with me. It would be perfect timing if you’d join us and express to him your feelings, as you’ve done with me.”

“I don’t think I can do that,” I said firmly.

“Why not, Brother Chauncey? You’ve always struck me as a fair brother. Put your questions to Bishop Upchurch. Give the man a chance,” Pastor Kenneth pleaded.

I wanted to tell him that I’d already given Damien Upchurch a chance and had gotten nothing but heartbreak for my efforts.

“I think I’ll pass on that opportunity. But I would like for you to ask him a question, and if you don’t mind, I’d like you to answer it as well,” I said, and then paused to make sure he heard my query.

“Sure. What is it?”

“Ask him where black gay and lesbian people go who believe in God with all their heart when we’re not welcome in our churches. Not only in Denver and Atlanta, but all over this country. Ask him where we go to be nurtured and express our faith. Where do we go for forgiveness? Do we put our faith in a box like some of our people used to do with their money because they didn’t trust the bank?”

“That’s a very valid question, Brother Chauncey. Do you want me to answer it?”

“I would.”

“It’s sad to say, Brother Chauncey, but the church is like the world. You would think that in church everyone would be loving and accepting, but that’s not the case. There are churches in this country that wouldn’t want you or me because of the color of our skin. They go to school and work with us, but only because they have to. In a church, just like a country club, they can choose their membership.”

“I understand that, but it still doesn’t explain how black churches can exclude a certain segment of our community because of something we do in private.”

“You think being black stops us from being prejudiced? I know far more black bigots than I do white ones.”

“That still doesn’t answer my question. Where do we go?”

“Do you feel comfortable at Abundant Joy? Has anyone ever said anything unkind toward you?”

“I love Abundant Joy, but by bringing Bishop Upchurch I sense a dangerous change occurring that I’ve experienced at other churches. Before you know it, we will be another megachurch harboring hate,” I said.

“Bishop Upchurch is coming because I asked him to come. We have to provide a forum for all voices. I’m not saying I agree with him, but we need people of all backgrounds and opinions in the church and the Senate. If Abundant Joy does become bigger, the center point will be God, His grace, and His mercy. I know that applies to all His children.”

“I hope you’re right, Pastor Kenneth. Still, I think it’s best that I sit out the bishop’s visit, and hopefully return to the church I love after he’s gone.”

“I don’t agree with you, but I respect your right to make that decision. I still say you should come to dinner and sit down with Bishop Upchurch and get to know this man of God.”

I was very angry but I didn’t respond. I was tempted to say I had already explored all the sides of Damien Upchurch I was interested in.

“He’s going to be here any minute. It’s not too late,” Pastor Kenneth said.

“What?”

“Bishop Upchurch is due any minute.”

“Damien? I mean, Bishop Upchurch is coming here?” I stammered.

Pastor Kenneth looked at his watch and said, “Yes, but it looks like he’s running a little late.”

I stood up quickly and felt a desire to run from Pastor Kenneth’s office. I felt sweat forming around my neck and rolling down the center of my chest like lava. I had to get out.

“Sorry, Pastor. I have other plans. Enjoy your dinner,” I said as I moved quickly from his office and down the hallway toward the parking lot.

I walked out into an ordinary fall night, and just before I reached my car I saw the profile of a man getting out of a limo. Even though it was dark, the lampposts covering the parking lots provided enough light for me to see that it was Damien. He was punching his fingers into a gadget that looked like a Palm Pilot or a BlackBerry.

I stood still and felt my heart thudding in my chest. He put the gadget in the jacket pocket of his suit and turned to look toward the church. Just as I was deciding whether or not to call out his name, he turned his head toward me and our eyes met. I remained silent and still as he walked toward me. Seconds later, he was standing so close to me I could tell the flavor of his toothpaste.

“Chauncey, is that really you?” Damien asked.

“Yeah, it’s me,” I stammered.

“What are you doing here?”

“Leaving,” I said softly.

“Is this Abundant Joy?”

“Yes.”

“Do you work here?”

“I attend church here, but of course you know that,” I said.

“How would I know that?”

“Didn’t you get my messages?”

“What messages?”

“Damien, I called you several times and left several messages.”

“I never got them,” Damien said.

“Well, certainly Grayson told you I called.”

“How do you know my wife?”

“I guess you could say she was stalking me for a minute and then we finally met,” I said.

Damien had a puzzled look on his face like he didn’t know what I was talking about.

“You met Grayson?”

“She didn’t tell you?” I asked.
So much for that perfect marriage
, I thought.

“I don’t understand what’s going on. What are you doing at Abundant Joy?”

“I go to church here. I just told you that,” I said.

“So you know Pastor Kenneth and Sister Vivian?”

“Yes, and I understand you’re having dinner with him,” I said.

Damien looked at his watch and said, “Yes, but I’m already late. Would you like to sit in my limo a few minutes and catch up?”

“Catch up?”

“Yeah, I want to show you pictures of my kids and let you know what I’ve been up to.”

“I visited your Web site. I heard you on Frank and Wanda. So I know what you’ve been up to,” I said bitterly. I moved slightly back from Damien, because I didn’t know if I wanted to kiss him or punch him in the mouth.

“So you know about all the good work I’ve been doing with my ministry,” Damien said. His voice gave off an air of authority that he’d had even as a teenager.

“Good work? Is that what you call your hate-speak?”

“You think the scriptures are wrong?” Damien asked.

“Don’t tell me about scriptures. I’ve read the Bible, too. Answer me this, Damien: if we’re to take every word of the Bible literally, then should we use a gun or knife to kill our neighbors who work on Sunday? And if you read Leviticus it also talks about
where
we should buy our slaves and that we shouldn’t eat shellfish.”

Damien peered at me like he was trying to figure out where I was coming from, and then he said sadly, “I guess you weren’t able to get rid of those homosexual demons. I guess my praying has been in vain.”

I shook my head and said, “You just don’t get it, Damien.”

I started toward my car, and Damien called my name. I was close enough to place the key in the lock, but instead I looked back toward him as tears rolled down my face.

“Chauncey, it broke my heart to break yours.”

I started to shout out that a real man of God would never allow my heart to be broken. Instead, I got into my car and drove off as the tears continued to paint my face.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

I
didn’t know if I was dealing with a has-been diva or a wannabe diva. But either way, I had definitely wandered into divaland.

I glanced at my watch. I’d been waiting for more than an hour. I signaled to the waiter to bring me the check for the glass of wine I’d had. Just as I stood to leave, a thin woman with a long golden weave, oversized Jackie O–type sunglasses, and a navy cashmere cape swept into Justin’s. She looked like a Hollywood star trying to avoid the paparazzi.

She posed as if she were a model and peered over the top of her glasses. Her eyes scanned the lunch crowd, and when her glance finally rested on me, I nodded and she sauntered over to the table.

“Yancey Braxton,” she announced, and held out her hand toward me.

I stood and took her hand in mine. “I’m Chauncey Greer. Nice to meet you.” As she sat down, I decided I was right. This woman certainly thought she was a diva—emphasis on
thought
.

“Well,” she began as she sat, “I understand that you’re dying to work with me.”

I raised my eyebrows and wondered who had told her that. I’d never heard of this woman before Lucy mentioned her. But I decided not to respond to her statement. I’d just go along with it—for the moment—to see how this conversation played out. “I’m looking forward to this project,” was all I said. That at least was true. I was looking forward to getting back into recording music. If working with Yancey Braxton would help me obtain my goal, then I was all for it.

She said, “Lucy told me that you write music.” Before I could respond, Yancey continued, “You know, I wrote many of the songs for my multiplatinum album. It went platinum within just weeks, but no one was surprised. My song ‘Any Way the Wind Blows’ was number one on the pop, R & B, and dance charts. My record label said that I had the pipes of Whitney Houston, the range of Mariah Carey, the soul of Aretha Franklin, and the class of Nancy Wilson.”

I was dumbfounded to watch this woman’s hands glide through the air as she compared herself to some of the best singers of our time.

“I was a huge recording artist, and the plan was for my agent to turn me into a big screen star. That was my next move. I was going to be huge,” she said. She spoke a little loudly for my taste. I noticed the way some of the customers around us stopped their conversations to glance at Yancey. But she seemed oblivious to everyone else in the world. She acted as if God had created this planet—and its inhabitants—just for her.

“Everyone said that my CD was the best CD released in the nineties. I was in
People
magazine.”

It took everything within me not to ask Yancey why, if she was so good, she had only one CD. But Lucy had filled me in enough, and I wasn’t out here trying to hurt anyone’s feelings.

“I knew that it was good. I was better than any singer out there at the time, male or female.”

I couldn’t help it anymore. “So you were that good and stopped singing?” I asked innocently.

She shrugged. “I had a small string of bad luck,” Yancey said. Those were the first words she spoke softly. Her fingers trailed through her weave. “But now it’s time. I’m about to make a major comeback,” she said, perking back up. “And you can’t have a comeback if you don’t leave first.” She smiled to herself. “Besides I need to do this before Whitney and Mariah wake up.”

“I guess so,” I said, keeping my voice lower and hoping she would take the hint.

“And that’s where you come in.” She leaned forward, her elbows on the table. “Okay, so this is what I want you to do. Lucy tells me that you sing a little?”

I crossed my legs and leaned back in the chair. “I do more than a little singing. I also write music. Lucy told me that I’d be writing with you and we’d be singing together.”

Her laugh was so loud, the people at the table next to us stopped eating to watch her. “Oh, no!” Her hands flailed through the air as if she were erasing my words. “I don’t need you to write anything. Weren’t you listening to me? I told you, I wrote most of the songs for my multiplatinum album.”

Okay
, I thought.
She has one more time to speak to me like this.

“I certainly don’t need you to do any writing. And as far as singing, I’m the lead,” she said, pointing to her chest. “All I’ll need from you is a little backup.”

My eyes narrowed. “That’s not the way this project was explained to me.”

“Well, Lucy got it wrong,” she said, peeking at me over her sunglasses. “This is how we’re going to do it.”

I sat for just a moment longer, then stood and dropped a ten-dollar bill onto the table. “You know what, Yancey? It seems that you don’t need me. Why don’t you write that song, sing that song, and make your big comeback. And may God bless you in your struggle. Now I’m going to leave so your comeback can begin.”

Her mouth opened into a wide O, as if no one had ever spoken to her that way. Well, it was about time, I thought as I zigzagged my way through the maze of tables. Before I stepped outside, I took a final look back into the restaurant and laughed. Yancey was still sitting in her seat, as if she couldn’t move.

I shook my head. If working with Yancey Braxton was what I needed to make my big splash, then I would just keep peddling my cards.

“My, my, what a busy week you’ve had. Turning down one of my favorite ex-divas, Yancey B, and running into the love of your life. Are you going to try and talk to Damien, and are you sure you want to turn down Yancey B?” Skylar asked, as he placed a pair of chopsticks next to a half-empty plate of shrimp chow mein.

We were both finishing up at P. F. Chang’s and I’d spent most of dinner telling him about meeting with Yancey B and my brief run-in with Damien.

“I hope that’s the last of Damien and as far as Yancey whatsherface I’m sure I made the right call,” I said as I took the last bite of the honey shrimp dish I’d craved at least once a week.

“I doubt if that is the last you will see or hear from Damien. I just have a feeling about you two,” Skylar said.

“I just want all of this over. I want my life to be normal again.” I sighed.

“What’s normal besides a city in Illinois?” Skylar laughed.

“You might be right,” I said.

The waiter brought us the check, along with two fortune cookies, and I swiftly grabbed the check and one of the cookies. I pulled out my Bank of America Visa card and placed it on the brown tray.

“So you think you’re slick, don’t cha?” Skylar said.

“What?” I raised my eyebrows, pretending not to know what he was talking about.

“This was supposed to be my treat.”

“That’s okay. You get it next time,” I said.

I cracked open my fortune cookie and Skylar opened the other. My fortune said:
“Your Life will soon be filled with spiritual and material wealth.”
I read it aloud to Skylar and then asked him what his said.

“Drop it like it’s hot. Drop it like it’s hot,” he sang and laughed.

“You’re a fool.”

“But that’s why you love me.”

“I guess so. When am I going to get part three of the story?” I asked.

Skylar paused, then said, “The last part is real sad. Are you ready for it?”

“Sad?”

“Not
Imitation of Life
sad,” Skylar said. “Looking back on it now, it’s more
Jerry Springer–
like, funny and crazy.”

“I think I can handle it. I need to laugh.”

“Then let’s order an after dinner drink and I’ll sing for my supper,” Skylar said.

“You can have a drink, but I’ll just have some tea.”

“Whatever,” Skylar said, as he waved, motioning to the waiter.

The waiter returned with my credit card, and Skylar ordered a cognac while I requested green tea. The waiter grimaced, realizing we weren’t quite ready to leave the coveted booth in the corner of the dimly lit, but busy restaurant.

“So last time we left this saga you and Tank were quite the couple,” I said, urging Skylar to start the finale of his love story.

He smiled. “Yes, we were happy for a little while. Whenever we were together Tank treated me like a princess. He was protective of me and always asked if any of the boys at school were trying to get with me. It tickled me to death when he acted jealous. I used to fib and tell him that some boys had asked me out but that almost backfired.”

“How so?”

“Well one time I told him one of the star players on our football team left in my locker a note and a picture of himself only wearing shoulder pads and a jock strap. It wasn’t a total fabrication because a third-string guy on my team did try to get with me but he knew me as Skylar, the boy.”

“What happened?”

“Tank knew the player I’d lied about. It turned out they played basketball against each other on an AAU team. Tank knew where he lived and had his phone number, so he called him and asked him why he was trying to hit on his girl. The boy, whose name I forgot, told him he must be smoking some weed laced with crack because he didn’t know what Tank was talking about, nor did he know any girl named Skylar.”

“What did you say?” I asked, trying to imagine how Skylar could possibly have wiggled his way out of that situation.

“I told him the guy was saying that because he knew Tank could fight and he was probably scared to death. When Tank asked more questions, I silenced him with a kiss,” Skylar said.

“So that was it? He didn’t find out?”

“Oh, he found out all right, but just not then,” Skylar said.

The waiter brought our drinks and then asked, “Will there be anything else or can I bring you
another
check?”

Skylar looked at him with eyebrows arched. “I know you’re not trying to give us a funky attitude with as much money as my friend and I usually spend in this overpriced joint. So just take your ass to your little corner and leave us alone. We’re discussing grown folks business.”

The waiter rolled his eyes at Skylar, and walked away.

“I hope you ain’t expecting a tip, bitch,” Skylar yelled. A middle-aged couple sitting at the table across from our booth stopped their chopsticks in midair. They stared at Skylar.

“Keep your eyes and ears over there in your booth because you don’t want to deal with me,” Skylar said to them.

I knew I had to jump in before this got out of control. “Come on, Sky. Leave those nice people alone. Just finish your story,” I urged, trying to change his focus.

“People don’t know who they’re fucking with. I can go back to my ghetto roots in a heartbeat,” he said.

This was one of those times when I wondered why Skylar used his words to threaten people before they had the chance to pass judgment on him. I’d seen him do it many times over the years, and at first I thought it was cute. But I didn’t like seeing Skylar being mean to people, especially women who usually were the victims of his venom.

“I know, Skylar, but tell me the story. So how did Tank find out you were a guy?”

“I’m getting there. I know I’m making light of this now, Chauncey, but this was a very painful episode of my life. In a lot of ways it would determine how I would handle relationships with not only lovers or potential boyfriends but my relationship with my family as well,” Skylar said seriously.

“I’m listening.”

“You know how I told you how I envied the relationship you had with your mother and father.”

“Yes,” I said. I thought back to how when I first met Skylar I noticed he never talked about his parents. When I asked him about it he told me when he’d finished high school his parents had gotten a divorce and he really didn’t talk to them that much. He told me neither one of his parents could deal with his sexuality and the fact that Skylar was so comfortable with it. He said both had remarried and that the new stepparents didn’t want Skylar around because they had younger kids and thought he’d molest them or something.

“I didn’t quite tell you the entire story about my split with my parents. They’re both homophobic; my mom married an asshole, and my father married a manic bitch but what I didn’t tell you was that I ran away from home before I graduated from high school because they wanted to have me committed,” Skylar said.

“That’s sad,” I said. “But what does that have to do with Tank? I’m sure every parent of a gay son or daughter thinks some kind of medical intervention will make their child heterosexual,” I said.

“You’re right about that. But what happened was my mother found out about me and Tank and embarrassed the hell out of me. Sometimes when I think back on that day I feel like I have hives all over my body, and all I want to do is rip off all my clothes and dive in a cold, deep ocean,” Skylar said.

“How did she find out?”

“It was the first time that I gave in to Tank’s request about coming to my house. I know it was stupid, but it was easier for me to get into my outfit. My sister’s room was so frilly and pink and I can’t tell you how many times I’d dreamed of making out with Tank on her canopy bed. So one evening when I knew my parents were at my sister’s dance recital I acted like I was sick. When the coast was clear I called Tank and he came over faster than an express subway train. I showed him around my house, and I’d taken down all the pictures of the boy Skylar. When I took him into my sister’s room and he took a look at the bed, well, he got harder than a block of cement. I don’t know if it was the room or the bubble gum pink miniskirt I was wearing,” Skylar said. He paused and took a slow sip of his drink and then continued.