I Say a Little Prayer (2 page)

CHAPTER TWO

T
he
rain pattering against my bedroom window and Jayshawn’s early exit several hours before almost caused me to miss church. I had decided against the early 7:30
A.M
. service, and when I finally woke up around 9:30
A.M
., I really didn’t have a good excuse not to go to the 11:00 service.

I crawled out of bed and slowly moved toward the bathroom. Inside, I turned on the shower, and as I waited for the water to warm, I began to stretch, trying to release the fatigue out of me.

As the steam from the shower misted the full-length mirror, I turned my 6'1", 193-pound frame to check out my body. I stared at my reflection and had to smile a little. My body was still as tight as a teenage boy’s. I was two years from forty, but my stomach was as flat as a biscuit without yeast. I worked hard on my body, and building a home gym was the best money I ever spent. I was determined to ease slowly, but magnificently, into middle age.

I jumped into the shower and soon was patting myself dry with a leaf-green beach-sized towel. I spent more shower and mirror time than I planned, so I avoided my razor, dressed quickly, and then dashed off to the Abundant Joy Baptist Church in midtown Atlanta, off Peachtree Street near Grant Park.

When I walked into the tiny church with a growing congregation of over five hundred, the praise service was in full force, with tambourines banging and melodic voices singing loudly. I had joined Abundant Joy over two years ago because it felt like a real church and didn’t have the businesslike attitude of Atlanta’s megachurches. At Abundant Joy, no one was concerned with my tax return, what type of car I drove, and more important, who I slept with.

It had taken me almost seven years to get over my last church trauma. When Shiloh Baptist turned from a friendly and supportive congregation of 1,000 to a 15,000-member cultlike organization, it didn’t seem like anything God wanted to be a part of. It was more like a business where the mission was to put on a show every Sunday. I mean, who ever heard of a church where you had to send in an audition tape to even try out for the choir or where the minister talked about his new house and Rolls-Royce as much as he talked about Jesus? To me it felt as though God had left me and the church I loved. That made me mad, and for years I used my Sundays to sleep off my Saturday-night hangovers.

But I was smart enough to know I needed God in my life every day and that the right church could fill that need. It’s not like I came to church in search of perfection. Perfection is dangerous, and I am nowhere near perfect. I’m a sinner, and I continue to sin. I like to get my drink on every now and then, and have been known to use the N and F words. Okay. I like to cuss. Especially when I get upset. And Lord knows I love sex. Lots of sex. With men as stupid as Jayshawn, with women as beautiful and spiritual as Giselle, a woman I met at church and whom I lost to the cult formerly known as Shiloh Baptist. I fell in love with Giselle because she was such a kind woman and I thought maybe God had sent her to change my desires for men. It worked for a while—until one day I walked into a gym and was smiled at by a tall, well-built man with a swinging dick. All he had to do was give me the look and I was ready to switch teams again. I’ve come to know that no matter what I do and how many times I do it, forgiveness and God’s love are always there. I just have to find them. Nevertheless, Giselle was not so forgiving after my confession.

Abundant Joy Baptist Church was headed by Pastor Kenneth Davis and his wife, Vivian, two dynamic people in their early thirties who used secular references in teaching the scriptures. It was not unusual to hear Nelly and Jay-Z mentioned right along with some of Jesus’ favorite disciples. In some ways, though, Abundant Joy was like an old-time country Baptist church where weekly announcements were read aloud, visitors were asked to stand and were welcomed warmly, and hymns like “Sweet Hour of Prayer” and “Just How Much We Can Bear” (my favorite) were sung.

I loved the fact that the church had no dress code and both male and female members often wore jeans or, on occasion, a hip-hop designer sweat suit. The only people who wore anything close to traditional garb were the praise team, who wore all black each week.

I took a seat on the last row of the left side of the church and said a little prayer, asking for the forgiveness of my sins of the night before. Then I glanced around. Almost all the seats in the pews were filled. There was a rumor going around that Pastor Kenneth was looking for a larger space. It looked like our little church was growing, and that had me concerned. Atlanta didn’t need another black megachurch. A few minutes later, it was time for the offering. I pulled out the check I had written the night before and placed it in the tithing envelope that I got from the rack attached to the back of the pew in front of me.

Pastor Kenneth took the pulpit and began his service with his usual jokes. He brilliantly used examples of dumb mistakes he made in his youth. We had so many young members, many of whom attended local colleges like Clark University and Morehouse, so Pastor Kenneth was always able to reel folks in and get their attention.

Pastor was a tall, greyhound-slim, chocolate-brown man with a bald head and dazzling smile. He talked about when he had pledged a fraternity in college and how he almost had not finished the process because he was afraid of what might happen before initiation. Even though I was older than most of my classmates when I attended college and didn’t have time for fraternities, I’d heard tales of hazing that made me wonder why anyone would ever want to join such a club. Wearing a T-shirt or a certain color and disfiguring your body didn’t seem to make sense to me.

Pastor cited a couple of scriptures and then started shouting like he was talking directly to me.

“Fear will keep you from accomplishing greatness,” he said as the sun’s rays beamed through the stained-glass window behind the altar. “Nobody cares if the only party you want to attend is a pity party.” He talked about how his fear could have kept him from the brotherhood of his fraternity and some of the best friendships of his life. He mentioned how he was afraid to approach his wife when he first saw her at a college football game because of her personality and beauty. But he told himself he could do it.

Members of the congregation stood and clapped. I sat transfixed as Pastor Kenneth jumped up and down like he was on a pogo stick, shouting, “Whatever it is you’re afraid of, you must tell yourself, ‘I can do it! I can do it! I can do it!’ Y’all don’t hear me, church!” The congregation continued to shout and cheer. “What are you afraid of, church? What dreams are you going to let go unfulfilled because of fear? Where there is fear, faith cannot exist. God has not given us the spirit of fear! You can do it! Look at your neighbor and tell him or her that ‘I can do it.’”

I turned to a beautiful woman with a blindingly white smile and said confidently, “I can do it.” And for the first time in a long time, I believed I could. It was time to dust off that dream that had been delayed for almost two decades. Even if it came wrapped up in a whole lot of bad memories, I had to do it, I had to make my dream come true.

That night, right before I went to bed, I took out the black-and-white journal I kept in my nightstand. I used it as a prayer journal and for the occasional brilliant insights God granted me. I wrote:

Memories and loneliness look backward

Fear looks around

But Faith always looks forward.

CHAPTER THREE

M
onday
morning, I walked from my car to my office excited that maybe I had reached a turning point, and I was going to make the most of it. Still high from the pastor’s message, I needed to act quickly before somebody reminded me of what I couldn’t do.

The sky was so clear and blue that I wanted to take a huge spoon and eat it like a bowl of ice cream. Instead, I would have my usual fried egg, cheese, and bacon on a sesame seed bagel, and coffee with one sugar and a dash of cream that I picked up from the local deli.

Once I reached my office, the first thing I noticed was my vice president, Celia, talking on the phone. A tide of hair, part weave and part real, covered half of her face, and she pulled it back with her left hand before she smiled and waved at me. Since I wore my head clean-shaven, I didn’t understand why women wanted someone else’s hair on their head, especially in the summer. I smiled back and opened the door to my conference room, where I normally ate my breakfast and reviewed my to-do list for the day.

After I’d taken a couple of bites of my breakfast sandwich, Celia walked in with a yellow legal pad, pen, and a mug and sat down at the conference table directly in front of me.

“How was your weekend, boss man?” she asked.

“Good. How was yours?”

“Just fabulous. I went to the outlet mall and the movies. Then last night I went to the club and met this phine-ass man named Lamar who just moved to Atlanta from Miami. I think he might be the one to make me dump you-know-who,” she said with the supreme confidence I heard every time she met a new man. She had recently broken up with Marvin, her deadbeat college boyfriend, for the umpteenth time, but I was afraid she still had strong feelings for him.

“You think so?” I quizzed as I took the final bite of my breakfast. This was our drill for a Monday morning: She would tell me about her weekend, where she’d gone, who she’d met, and how he was going to be the love of her life. I wondered who had a tougher time when it came to dating: single, straight women or an almost forty-year-old gay man.

Celia Grace Ledbetter was more than a coworker. During the five years she had worked for me, I’d come to consider her a little sister. I felt a rush of protectiveness when she talked about the various men she met; I always wanted to call them and warn them to treat Celia right.

I met Celia at a job fair at Clark AU, where she was getting her MBA. Like me, she had attended the now-closed Morris Brown College and didn’t start until her early twenties. Even though I attended Georgia Tech for my grad studies, I kept in contact with one of my professors from MBC, Dr. Thomas Rainey. After an impressive interview with Celia, I called him, and he was excited. He told me that Celia was a hard worker and mentioned that she had grown up in public housing in Macon, Georgia. I knew I needed to hire her when I found out that she had paid her way through Morris Brown with scholarships and by working as a teller at Bank of America. All the while, she maintained a 3.68 grade-point average. She was a little more of an around-the-way girl (aka ghetto) than I preferred, but I had the polish she needed to become a diamond in the business world.

Celia was a cute girl, sturdy at 5'10", 170 pounds, and peppy with cinnamon-brown eyes that were gentle, but there was a touch of sadness about her. She had a full mouth with lips that were a little too big for her face. Sometimes she dressed like she was going hiking in the Colorado Mountains (think butch), and then there were days (like today) when she dressed like she was going to the club—a skirt too short and a blouse too small.

I glanced at Celia and noticed her earrings, which looked like teaspoons. Her print jersey dress was scooped so low at the neck, in a material so sheer, you didn’t have to use your imagination to see the shape of her nipples. I wanted to call my good friend Skylar to do an emergency extreme makeover.

Despite her minor faults, I couldn’t imagine my life or business without Celia Ledbetter.

“Take a look at this,” Celia said as she pulled a sheet of white paper from inside her legal pad.

“What’s this?”

“It’s the monthly sales report. May was great. We got fifty more stores to carry the new line of cards. Just think what will happen if we can get into Wal-Mart,” Celia said.

I looked over the report. Business was good. This might make it easier to take some time off to follow my delayed dream.

About ten years earlier, I had started a small card company out of my bedroom. CBCC (Cute Boy Card Company) started when I could never find a card with black men that didn’t show their dicks and asses. I wanted cards that showed handsome men, not pretty-boy model types, and I wanted messages I could relate to. I hated sending cards that proclaimed love when in fact it was simply a strong “I think I might like you.”

I had since expanded the line with mugs, journals, and T-shirts. The line also included cards and calendars with beautiful African American women of all different shapes and colors. I had several cards with young models wearing T-shirts with Greek symbols, which were a big hit at the black colleges and universities. My products were carried in every state except Idaho, Utah, and Montana. A few years ago, Celia designed an Internet site that increased business by almost 35 percent.

“Do you think we have a shot at Wal-Mart?” I asked.

“Yep, I do. Their card buyer is this beautiful Hispanic girl named Christy. We really hit it off, and she’s working with her boss to bring me to Arkansas to do a card-buyer presentation to Wal-Mart. You can retire in your early forties if we get this account,” Celia said with a wink.

“We’ll both be able to retire,” I agreed as I looked over the report and started humming, “Money, money, money,” as Celia drank from her mug and bounced her head from side to side to my tune.

“What is that I smell?” I asked as I walked into my outer office. It was a little after ten o’clock.

“I got up early this morning and made these just for you. That’s why I was running a little late,” Ms. Gladys said. Gladys Singleton was the office manager and mother figure to both Celia and me. A sixty-four-year-old widow who looked forty and still dressed like she was running for campus queen, Gladys started working for me when I stole her away from Douglas High School. I was there giving a presentation on how I started my business, and I was impressed with the way she carried herself and how a single look from her cowed a rowdy male student into sudden silence. I could tell she was a “don’t start nothing, it won’t be nothing” kind of teacher.

After my presentation, we talked for over an hour about how she had reentered the teaching profession at age fifty-five after her husband died suddenly. Gladys had met her husband her freshman year at Tuskegee Institute in Alabama and had two adult sons whom she was estranged from because of their ongoing drug problems. I could see the pain in her eyes when she told me how her sons had stolen her wedding rings and pawned them for drugs. A week before her husband died, he had planned to use his retirement savings to get the rings back.

I gave her my card and told her if she was ever in the market for a new job, I would love to hire her. I was happy and surprised when, a month later, Gladys walked into my office and announced, “I’m not about to allow those little bastards to make my last years miserable.” I hired her on the spot.

“Now, Ms. Gladys, I told you, you don’t have to do that,” I said as I peeked into a wicker basket full of blueberry muffins. I smiled and inhaled deeply.

“I know you already had one of them bagels with all that fattenin’ stuff on it. You know you shouldn’t eat eggs unless they come straight from the farm,” she said. “Taste one of these muffins. I put in some walnuts I cracked myself.”

I took a bite and said, “This is the best blueberry muffin I ever had.”

“I thought you said your mama could cook.”

“Yea, but not muffins like these.”

“Little Miss Celia wanted to take one, but I told her we had to wait until you had one first.” She shook her head. “I tell you, I don’t know what to say about these young girls today. Don’t she know menfolks get first shot at the food?” Ms. Gladys said.

“And I’m sure you reminded her of that.” I smiled as I picked up another muffin. This would cause me to run an extra twenty minutes on the treadmill, but it was worth every step.

“I have to remind Celia every chance I get. Did you see that dress she has on? Of course you did, you a man. Can I get you some coffee to go with your muffins?”

“Sure, with lots of cream.”

“Now, Chauncey, baby, I know how you like your coffee. You just go on into your office and get busy making up new cards or whatever it is you do in there. I’ll be in there in two shakes.”

“Thank you, Ms. Gladys.”

“No problem, baby.”

When he opened up his mouth to sing, all the girls (and a few guys) pinched each other and giggled. They weren’t laughing because he couldn’t sing. They were simply doing what girls do when they see a cute boy. I heard one girl whisper, “He’s so fine, he’s bound to be a pimp or a preacher when he grows up.”

Sweet D was a boy of many talents. Before he arrived in town, I never had competition when it came to being the choir director’s favorite. But it looked like I did now. D seemed to have everything.

“In my home, over the-re. Where my Lord he did prepare,” he sang in a tenor voice as clear as a spring day.

“In my home,” he continued, and I began to worry about what song I could sing the next time I did a solo to outshine my new rival.

After practice, I watched him mesmerize Taylor Dillard and her running buddies with banter about living in the big city of Atlanta. To look at them, you would have thought he was commenting on their beauty, the way all three of them were batting their eyelashes and covering their mouths like they were white southern belles at a debutante ball flirting with the black wait-staff. He caught me staring at him again as I had on the basketball court, and as I had a few days after that while he drank a Coca-Cola with salted peanuts at the bottom of the bottle, shirtless (six-pack clear and present) at the Texaco service station. All I needed to do was go over to him, use my postpuberty deep voice, ask what was happening, and give him the black-power soul shake. But I didn’t have to do that. After Taylor and her crew left the church, he walked over toward the organ where I was sitting, pretending to study the keys.

“So I hear you sing, too,” he said.

“Yeah. I sing a little,” I said without looking at him.

“Do you play, too?”

“Play?”

“Yeah, the organ.”

“A little.”

“Play something for me,” he said. It wasn’t a command but rather a request.

“I can’t do that,” I said.

“Why not?”

“Dr. Owens, the minister of music, don’t like us kids playing with his stuff.”

“Who’s gonna tell?” he quizzed. I looked at him, and he smiled and said, “Not me.”

My stomach started grumbling and I jumped up from the bench. “I better not.”

“Okay, some other time.”

“Sure. We have a piano at home. Maybe I can play for you there sometime. Can you play?” I said.

“No, but maybe you can teach me,” he said with a smirk. “What’s your name?”

“Chauncey. Chauncey Greer.”

“Nice to meet you, Chauncey. They call me Sweet D. I just moved here from Atlanta.”

“Why did you move?”

“It wasn’t my plan. My pops left town years ago and my mama wasn’t working, so one of her cousins told her we could come live with her until my mama got on her feet,” D said.

“Oh,” I said, wondering where his father had gone.

“Who do you live with?”

“My mama, daddy, and I have a sister and a baby brother.”

Sweet D was quiet for a moment, and then he said, “Sounds like a real family. Like
Leave It to Beaver.”

“Naw, we’re not like them, but maybe you can come see for yourself.”

“Are you inviting me over?” he asked, sounding surprised. “Man, that’s cool. Most of the dudes have been really shady except for the guys I play ball with, and they don’t invite me over because they ’shamed they live in government housing,” D said.

“Let me check with my parents, but I’m pretty sure it will be okay,” I said as I started out of the church.

“Cool. Just let me know.”

“I will,” I said, waving good-bye and wondering why my heart was pounding and sweat was dripping down the center of my chest.