When Sunday Comes Again (15 page)

Authors: Terry E. Hill

Tags: #Fiction, #African American, #General, #Urban

The images soon faded from the sheet. The whiteness was now even more apparent than when she first hung it. Time had stood still during the vision. She had no idea how long she had been staring at the sheet. It could have been minutes. It could have been hours. The pain she felt in her knees gave a hint to the length of time she had been standing. She reached out and touched the sheet. It was almost completely dry. The sun was no longer directly above her head. She looked down at the ground and saw her shadow extended across the green grass.

Hattie bent down and retrieved the last towel from the basket. It, too, was almost dry. After hanging it on the line, Hattie made her way to the back steps of her house. She paused on each step, dragging the basket behind her. When she reached the door, she walked inside. “Thy will be done, Lord, on earth just as it is in heaven,” she whispered as she closed the door behind her.

It had been two days since Gideon first met Danny St. John. In that time he couldn't get the gentle young man out of his mind. Danny was in his thoughts when he drove through the crowded Los Angeles streets. Images of Danny sat across the table from him when he had his morning coffee and muffins.

How could a sweet guy like that get himself involved in a horrible situation like this?
he thought as he transcribed notes from his recorded interview with Hattie Williams. Gideon could still smell the distinct scent of sandalwood he had recognized the day Danny cried on his shoulder in the dingy little conference room.

It was nine thirty at night. Gideon sat alone in the office of his home in the Hollywood Hills. The room was a soothing shade of beige, with a white contoured ceiling. There was a sitting area with a couch, two comfortable chairs, and a coffee table, which held a stack of books he had read. His housekeeper had left the room in pristine condition after she had cleaned that morning. A wet bar in the far corner of the room had gone untouched since the day he moved into the house three years earlier.

While sitting at the desk, in front of his laptop computer, Gideon continually stopped and started the recording of Hattie Williams. Half the screen was filled with the haunting words she had spoken.

“There's no light around Samantha Cleaveland,” came Hattie's muted voice from the recorder. Gideon rewound the tape and played it again. “There's no light around Samantha Cleaveland.” And again, “There's no light around Samantha Cleaveland.”

Gideon thought again about Danny as he typed the words on his laptop.
I wish there was something I could do to help him.

Gideon abruptly stood up from the desk and walked to the window. Laid out before him was the twinkling Los Angeles skyline. The jagged jumble of tall obelisk high-rises were each dotted with lighted windows on every floor. Neon signs blinked over the canvas in an attempt to lure customers in to buy Nikes, big-screen televisions, cigarettes, and malt liquor.

You've got to stay objective, man,
Gideon silently admonished himself as he stood at the window.
For all you know, Danny could have killed Hezekiah himself.

Even in the face of all he had learned as a reporter, Gideon could not stop thinking of how wonderful Danny had felt in his arms. He wanted to protect him.

Protect him from what?
he thought.
Protect him from Hezekiah and Samantha. Maybe protect him from himself.

Gideon had never been in love in his entire forty-five years. He purposefully hadn't allowed himself to get close enough to anyone and had never allowed anyone to get close to him. Every ounce of psychic energy had been reserved for his career. He had known he wanted to be a reporter since he was in the fifth grade at the little Union Elementary School in Texarkana.

His third grade teacher, Mrs. Perry, had recognized Gideon's natural curiosity and desire for finding the “answers behind the answers.” She assigned him the task of writing a short article for the school newsletter on the upcoming school election. Gideon had instinctively interviewed all the young candidates, the teachers overseeing the election, and even the school principal. The directness of his questions had surprised some of the adults even then. The attention he garnered from that article was the beginning of his goal to be a news reporter.

He considered emotions like love and fear a distraction. There was no room for distractions in his world. This was complicated by the fact that all his life he had been primarily attracted to men. In the 1980s there was little room for a black journalist at the major newspapers and television stations and even less room for a black gay journalist. It was hard enough to get an entry-level job. He saw his sexuality as an unnecessary distraction for the white editor or news producer sitting across the desk from him during his many interviews after college.

Until he met Danny, the emotions of love and desire had seemed irrelevant. Over the years he had rarely acted on his desires for fear of being publicly exposed as a homosexual. The occasional nameless encounters with ciphers from the Internet were far less frequent than the numerous proclamations of love, proposals for marriage, and other more temporal propositions he received almost daily from admiring fans, men and women on the street, other celebrities, and the occasional network executive.

But somehow the sight of Danny St. John two days earlier in the crowded homeless drop-in center had reminded him that he was not exempt from the need to love and be loved just like every other human in the world.

Gideon tried to resist his feelings for Danny, but the more he looked into the death of Hezekiah Cleaveland, the more he found himself looking into the eyes of Danny St. John. The more he transcribed notes from church members, the more he remembered Danny. Whenever he thought of Samantha Cleaveland, his thoughts would inevitably rush to the fragile young man who had needed him so deeply for those brief moments after he had confronted him with the e-mails from Hezekiah.

Gideon felt himself teetering on the edge of an ethical precipice.
A reporter reports the news.
The words of his Journalism Ethics and Standards professor echoed in his head.
Always remain objective, and most importantly, never, ever become part of the story.

Danny called to him from across the ethical divide. The canons of journalism had served as his bible throughout his career. The words
Professional integrity is the cornerstone of a journalist's credibility
greeted him each day when he turned on his computer and scrolled across the screen each time the computer fell asleep.

Gideon longed to touch Danny's soft skin again. He wanted to feel his body again in his arms. He resisted the urge to pick up his cell phone and dial Danny. “Get a hold of yourself, man,” he said out loud. “He's not worth jeopardizing your entire career.”

But Gideon's heart said otherwise.
He's so beautiful. He's the most beautiful man I've ever met.
This time the words went unspoken. Gideon walked away from the window and returned to his desk. The white computer screen stared back at him. Of all the words on the screen, the only ones he could see were
Danny St. John.

How do you fall in love with someone you've only met once?
he silently questioned. “It's not possible. Maybe this happens to people who watch too many soap operas,” he said aloud.
You're better than that, Gideon Truman. You're stronger than that.

Chapter 11

Hattie Williams sat in the conference room at New Testament Cathedral. A stack of checks that needed her signature were on the table in front of her. Given that she was one of the founding members, a board trustee, and a longtime confidant to Hezekiah Cleaveland, Hattie's was the second signature required on all checks issued by the church. Like clockwork on each Friday afternoon at three o'clock a black Escalade pulled in front of her modest home. The driver would politely tap on her iron-bar door and say, “Good afternoon, Mother Williams. I'm here to take you to church to sign checks.” The driver would then slowly escort her down the front steps and into the rear of the waiting SUV.

“She's too old for this. She doesn't know enough about church business to be a signatory,” Samantha had often said to Hezekiah. “Why in God's name don't you make me the second signer? You don't trust me?”

“Of course I trust you, darling,” Hezekiah would lovingly reply. “I've told you a thousand times, you and I both can't be signers. We don't want to appear that we are a dynasty. It's just not appropriate.”

“But we are a dynasty, and you need to stop pretending we're not. We are the Cleavelands. We're worth millions of dollars. We run one of the largest ministries in the country, yet you still want to run it like some jackleg preacher in a storefront with all his brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, and cousins as the only members. Grow up, Hezekiah. Whether you want to accept it or not, this is a business, and you need to start running it like a business.”

Hezekiah's patience always grew thin at this point in the conversation. “That's where you and I differ. This isn't a business. It's a church. It's a ministry whose sole purpose is to bring souls to Christ. Not to make millions of dollars. And don't you ever forget that.”

“I realize that,” Samantha would snap back. “And please do not admonish me. You are not in any position to take the moral high road. I am your wife, and I know all your little secrets. You spend their tithes on expensive clothes and your little toys just like I do.”

“I don't want to argue about this again, Samantha,” Hezekiah would say impatiently. “Hattie is the signatory, and that's how it's going to stay until either she or I leaves this world.”

Each Friday Hattie would be greeted in the air-conditioned conference room by an attractive young assistant. “Good afternoon, Mother Williams. How are you today?” she would politely inquire.

“I'm fine, baby. God is good.”

As usual there was a stack of checks, a gold pen, a pitcher of ice water, and one glass neatly arranged on the table.

“If you need anything, Mother, just buzz me on the intercom.”

“I'll be fine, dear.” In the years Hattie had been signing the checks, she had never used the intercom.

Hattie leaned her cane against the large table and settled into the comfortable leather chair at the head of the table. She placed her patent leather purse on the floor, near the heel of her sensible shoe. Utility bills, payroll checks, payments to the many vendors necessary to maintain the mega church, the weekly $3,055.00 check to the florist, each year millions of dollars would pass under her signature. Hattie had only one rule. She would never approve personal expenses for Samantha Cleaveland. The checks to Samantha's dressmaker always went unsigned, until one day they stopped appearing in the weekly stack. Payments to her personal hairdresser, manicurist, and any other person who contributed to her beauty were routinely placed in a separate stack and left unsigned. Those, too, were eventually left out of the pile. No one ever dared ask why she refused to sign them, because everyone already knew.

As Hattie worked her way through the checks, which now displayed Samantha Cleaveland's calligraphic signature, there was a gentle tap on the door. Before she could respond, the door opened.

“Excuse me, Mother Williams,” Cynthia Pryce said, peering in. “I know you're busy, but may I have a word with you?”

Hattie looked up from the papers at Cynthia and said, “Come in, baby. I'm about done with these. What can I do for you?”

Cynthia closed the door and sat at the table. “Mother Williams, I wanted to talk to you about Samantha.”

Hattie sat the gold pen down and took a sip of cold water.

“May I be direct with you?” Cynthia said, leaning in closer.

Hattie treated it as a rhetorical question.

“Some of the members have been talking, and well . . . we're very concerned about Samantha.”

“How so?” Hattie asked calmly.

“It's only been a month since Hezekiah's death, God rest his soul. We are concerned that she may not be giving herself enough time to grieve. She was back in the pulpit only a week after he died, and now she's taken on being the interim pastor. Some of us think we, I mean the board of trustees, may have overestimated how strong she really is. As you well know, it takes time for a woman to get over the loss of a husband. How long did it take for you to get over the death of your husband?”

Again Hattie did not respond.

Cynthia stumbled briefly in the silence but quickly regained her purpose and continued. “I think . . . I mean some of us think, that in the shock of Hezekiah's murder, the trustees may have put too much on Samantha too soon. She needs time to heal, wouldn't you agree, Mother Williams?”

Hattie studied her intently. She could see her glow of intensity.
Too cool of a customer to sweat, but not too cool to hide her true heart.

Hattie heard the words Cynthia spoke, but even more clearly she heard her heart. She acknowledged there was some truth in the trustees acting too hastily in appointing Samantha as interim pastor. There was also truth in a widow needing time to grieve. But Hattie knew Samantha was not grieving. However, the truth was overshadowed by the vision of Samantha leading the masses of lost souls to God. The poorly veiled entreaty by Cynthia to make her husband, Percy, pastor once again forced Hattie to decide what was most important. Leading souls to Christ or seeing to it that Samantha got all that she deserved.

“Sister Pryce, who do you think should be pastor?”

“I think it's obvious, don't you? Reverend Pryce and I have prayed about this ever since Hezekiah was killed, and with God's help, and your prayers, we are willing to take the position, for the good of the church and for Samantha Cleaveland.”

Hattie grew weary of the insults to her intelligence and said calmly, “You mean for the good of Cynthia Pryce, don't you?”

Cynthia's charming and pious facade quickly melted to reveal her heart. Her face grew hard, her jaw clenched, and her eyes tightened. “No, not for me, Mother Williams,” she said curtly. “This would be an enormous sacrifice on my part.” Cynthia could barely contain the contempt she felt for the old woman who held so much power in her arthritic hands.

A side of Hattie that few rarely had the opportunity to see emerged in full force. “You've been chomping at the bit for years, and now that Hezekiah is gone, you see it as the opportunity to get what you've always wantedâto be the first lady of New Testament Cathedral.”

In the face of such candor Cynthia found it impossible to continue the charade. “Okay, Mother Williams,” she said coolly. “There doesn't seem to be any point in denying that to you. Yes, I want to be first lady, and I think I'd make a damned good one. But that's not the point. New Testament Cathedral needs someone at the helm who can lead us all through this grieving process. Someone who can give their all to this ministry, and there's no way Samantha can do that now. The woman just buried her husband. She can't focus on saving souls. You'd be doing her a favor by making Percy the pastor.”

“I think you underestimate Samantha Cleaveland.”

“No, Mother, I don't think I have in this case.”

“So, what are you asking me to do?”

“Reverend Davis is going to call a special session of the board of trustees. At that meeting Percy will be nominated for the position of pastor. I'm asking you to support Percy as the permanent pastor of New Testament Cathedral.”

Danny sat alone in a window seat at the coffee shop a short walk from his apartment in the West Adams District. The room was comfortable, with clusters of cushioned chairs, worn wooden tables, and racks of throwaway neighborhood newspapers and magazines scattered on surfaces. The space was so comfortable, it felt contrived to Danny. The tables, floors, and walls were all made from distressed wood that could not have been as old as some of the magazines scattered around the room.

Must have taken a lot of planning by some West Hollywood queen to make it look this lived in, he thought.

There were only two other customers. An attractive young woman was sitting on a comfy couch in the center of the room. An aqua, orange, and blue scarf was wrapped around her head like a turban, and a bouquet of sandy brown dreads sprang from the top. Brown beads and milky white cowrie shells dangled from the tip of each braid. She wore large round earrings, each bearing the pounded imprint of the jeweler's hammer. Her baggy dress was accessorized with wooden and bronze African bracelets and silver rings with large green and amber stones. She sat alone, with her legs folded under her, reading
Love Poems
by Nikki Giovanni.

Danny noticed her sandals. They were expensive and wrapped her delicate feet with straps of new brown leather.
Third-generation Baldwin Hills,
he thought as he sipped his iced coffee.

The only other customer in the shop was a man who on occasion discreetly tried to make eye contact with Danny. He looked to be in his mid- to late forties. In an odd way he reminded Danny of Hezekiah. But that was not unusual. The mailman, bus drivers rolling by, and even Lester Holt from
The Today Show
reminded Danny of Hezekiah. The man in the coffee shop was tall, with a thick, black, bushy mustache. So thick and so black, Danny assumed he either dyed it or used a mascara brush to make it look so perfect. He wore a black suit and a red tie. He seemed out of place in the casual neighborhood coffee shop, but he was nonetheless comfortable across the room reading the newspaper and sipping a cup of steaming coffee, occasionally glancing in Danny's direction. Danny could see the man from the corner of his eye, but he never looked directly at him for fear of inadvertently initiating an unwanted connection.

The room smelled of freshly roasted coffee beans being brewed by the lone barista. The mournful voice of Nina Simone whispered gently from places unknown.

“There a light

A certain kind of light

It's never shown on me

I want my whole life to be

Lived with you

There's a way

Everybody say

Do each and every little thing

What good does it bring

If I ain't got you, if I ain't got you

If I ain't got you.”

Danny wished the song would end. It seemed the music was playing so cruelly just for him, a sad soundtrack to his life.