When Sunday Comes Again (27 page)

Read When Sunday Comes Again Online

Authors: Terry E. Hill

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

Samantha did nothing as she watched the shadow of David's hulking body tumble down the hill. When she heard the thud of his body hitting the pavement below, she moved quickly to Danny and removed his watch. She recognized the dial of the Rolex immediately and said, “I assume Hezekiah gave this to you, so technically it belongs to me.” She then removed his wallet and said, “Good-bye, Danny St. John. I'm glad we finally met.”
In the car Samantha unzipped the leather duffel bag, revealing the jumble of cash. She placed the gun, the watch, and the wallet inside the bag and shoved it to the floor of the car.
Once on the road, Samantha followed David down the hill until they each vanished into the night as silently as they had come.
 
 
Samantha opened the door to her closet. It was three o'clock on Sunday morning. Etta was asleep in the maids' quarters. The house resembled a mausoleum with its dark, cavernous halls and lifeless rooms. Little green lights blinked on security devices throughout the house, and red beams guarded the most valued treasures.
When she opened the door, lights around a floor-to-ceiling mirror that stretched the length of the wall in the closet turned on automatically and flooded the elaborate windowless room with what appeared to be natural sunlight. A crystal chandelier hanging over a Louis XV table that held an arrangement of tulips, roses, and white snapdragons marked the center of the room, which was almost as large as the master bedroom.
Clothes she had acquired over the years of her marriage were arranged by designer and occasion. Each of her favorite designers had their own individually lit nook. Sections were dedicated to couture gowns, black dresses, white dresses, business wear, formal, semi-formal, and every other conceivable occasion. Dozens of hats made especially for her face were displayed on pouting porcelain heads. A ladder on wheels leaned against shelves filled with cashmere sweaters and silk scarves stacked neatly according to color. A full set of Louis Vuitton luggage had been placed neatly in a section created especially for luggage. The mansion's central control room assured that the closet remained at a constant sixty degrees, the perfect temperature for storing her most valued collection.
The centerpiece was the hundreds of shoes displayed on shelves behind sliding glass doors. The shoes were arranged by color. Each pair had been chosen to complement a new ensemble added to the collection, or for its ability to carry Samantha as if she had wings on her feet.
Samantha stood in the threshold and admired the items that were so dear to her heart. Garments and shoes that had not been worn in years and would probably never be worn again were as admired as those she had just worn the day before. Some held sentimental value, while others were kept for their sheer beauty and exquisite craftsmanship.
Samantha normally took two hours early on Sunday morning to ready herself for church. But this was going to be another special Sunday. She needed more time to assemble the perfect image for her first Sunday as the permanent pastor of New Testament Cathedral. Samantha wanted to look her most radiant, while conveying an air of humility, with a backdrop of power. Her heels had to be just the right height. Her jewelry had to sparkle but not shine.
She had to select a look that would titillate the husbands but would not incense the wives.
Samantha grudgingly decided that because Hezekiah had been dead only a few weeks, she had to, for at least one more Sunday, wear black. After a lengthy search of the black dress section, Samantha selected three outfits from the racks and displayed them on hooks as if they were warriors preparing for battle. One was a simple two-piece suit with a loose-fitting skirt and a jacket with mid-length sleeves. The second was also a suit, but with a skirt that hugged the lines of her well-shaped lower half. As she studied the lineup, the third was clearly emerging as her favorite. She had purchased it the week earlier, on a shopping spree on Rodeo Drive. It was a Givenchy that caressed the contours of her body and offered a seductive peek at the V in her ample cleavage.
She tried on each of the outfits multiple times over the next hour, putting each one through a series of tests, posing and strutting, sitting and waving in front of the mirrored wall. Samantha kneeled in front of the large mirror, walked at a quick pace across the length of the dressing-room floor, and executed a series of abrupt twists and turns, mimicking the theatrics and gestures of her debut sermon.
She decided on the Givenchy suit at the conclusion of the high fashion aerobic session. Its color, shape, and easy movement suited her purposes well. The shoes she selected were not the pair purchased for the suit. Instead, she chose a pair with a slightly higher heel. The accessories were the easy part; the dress would tolerate only diamonds, a single-strand bracelet, and six-carat studs for her ears.
Samantha stood in front of the mirror to examine her final choice and was pleased. For a brief second the image of Danny's lifeless body flashed before her. “Give Hezekiah a kiss for me,” she said out loud while surveying her figure from every angle.
It was now 7:45 on Sunday morning at New Testament Cathedral. The death of Hezekiah could still be felt in the air and seen on the faces of members as they filed down the aisles and into the pews. The entire length of the three steps that led up to the pulpit was covered from top to bottom with flowers left by thousands each Sunday. At the end of each Sunday the maintenance crew would remove the flowers, and the next Sunday there would be even more.
The pipe organ churned an upbeat hymn in an effort to elevate the mood as members took their seat. An eight-foot portrait of a smiling Hezekiah T. Cleaveland, draped with black cloth, hanging above the choir stand immediately reminded worshippers that a murder had taken place only a few Sundays earlier.
Cameras captured, for the two jumbo screens, the parade of colorful hats, mothers settling small children into the pews, and men escorting their wives down the aisles. The continuing saga of grief was felt not only in the sanctuary. People across America watched and cried along with them from the comfort and safety of their homes.
“Where are you, David?” Samantha asked, clutching her cell phone to her ear in the window of her office.
“I'm here, parking the car.”
“Are Scarlett and Natalie with you?”
“Yeah, I dropped them at the entrance. She's getting our seats before it gets too crowded.”
“Perfect. Did you say anything to her last night?”
“What was I going to say? Honey, guess what Samantha and I did last night?”
“Good, and make sure you keep it that way. Did she ask why you were out so late?”
“No. She was just surprised and relieved I came home. Stop asking me all these fucking questions,” he snapped. “I told you I wasn't going to say anything, and I didn't. When am I going to see you? I want to hold you in my arms. I need to make love to you again. I love you, Samantha.”
“Soon. Just be patient,” Samantha said calmly. “David?” she continued.
“What?”
“You and I are in this together. Do not cross me, because as you now know, I can be a very dangerous woman.”
When the clock struck eight, the side doors to the left and right of the pulpit swung open and the choir entered from both sides into the stand.
“We are on our way. We're on our journey home,” the choir sang as they marched. “We are on our way. We're on our journey home.”
The stage backdrop was an electric blue wall of light that periodically changed hues to match the desired mood of each moment during the service. The walls of the sanctuary pulsated from the brass instruments, drums, violins, guitars, organs, and pianos playing the rhythmic tune. Scenes on the two twenty-foot-high JumboTron screens alternated rapidly between panoramic shots of the congregation standing, clapping, and singing and the two-hundred-member choir and orchestra.
Another door at the foot of the pulpit opened. All heads in the room turned to the door. After a dramatic pause, Samantha Cleaveland appeared in the threshold. The cameras rushed to catch every second of her entrance. As befitting a widow still in mourning, she wore the two-piece black Givenchy suit, which traced with precision each curve, bend, and twist of her hourglass figure. A sleek skirt sloped around her full hips down to the lips of a tulip shaped hemline just above her knees. The jacket was a cascade of satiny fabric, cinched at the waist and blossoming around her hips. The heels on her one-of-a-kind black Chanel sling-back pumps were the exact height necessary to mold her legs into the perfect female form.
Samantha entered the sanctuary with the gait of a woman straddling the line between courage and grief. Applause exploded throughout the sanctuary when the people saw her, and drowned out the singing of the choir. Samantha flashed her smile and waved triumphantly to the crowd. The diamond bracelet she wore twinkled like a cluster of stars in the midnight sky.
The image of Samantha Cleaveland standing at the front row, smiling and still waving to the crowd, filled the JumboTron screens. The caption below read, “Rev. Dr. Samantha Cleaveland—Pastor and Founder, New Testament Cathedral.” She repositioned her body with each wave to ensure everyone in the room got a complete view.
David Shackelford walked swiftly down the aisle and slid sideways into a pew two rows from the front. He stepped over shoes and purses until he reached Scarlett and Natalie. David scooped up the little girl and sat her in his lap and kissed Scarlett on her cold cheek.
Scarlett looked up at the screen filled with a twenty-foot Samantha Cleaveland. God, what have we done? she thought.
As usual, Samantha got everything she wanted, but at least she didn't get my husband.
Scarlett reached over and covered David's hand with hers. She found it hard to believe he was sitting next to her.
Thank God he didn't leave me for that bitch.
When the applause subsided and the audience returned to their seats, the music gradually transitioned to a melodic and reverent tone. A soprano began to sing an operatic tune, and the audience followed her word for word. The melody from the crowd rolled from the front of the church to the top row of the sanctuary and filled the room as congregants softly sang in unison and looked upward to heaven.
The cameras followed Samantha as she walked along a path in the sea of flowers and up the steps to the center of the stage. Again, the audience leapt to their feet, and thunderous applause erupted. Samantha stood at the mike center stage, raised her hands in victory, and blew a series of kisses to the crowd.
“I love you, too, New Testament Cathedral family,” she declared, her amplified voice rising above the cheers and applause. “I love you too.” She beamed.
The outpouring of love and adoration went on for five minutes, until Samantha finally raised her hands and tamed the crowd into submission.
Cynthia Pryce sat on the front row with her husband, Percy. Dark oval sunglasses and a thick mask of Derm-ablend covered the black eye and the scars inflicted by the heel of Percy's shoe. A wide-brimmed hat and a collar that reached her chin provided ample cover for the bruises on her neck and back. Under the glasses her left eye twitched as she watched Samantha on the stage.
Percy reached for her shaking hand, but she pushed him away. “Don't touch me,” she said under her breath. “That should be you up there, not that bitch.”
“Good morning, New Testament Cathedral!” Samantha said to the rapt crowd. “Does anybody here know that God is still a good God?”
Thousands of voices responded with, “Yes, Lord,” or “Yes, He is,” and “I know it, Pastor. I know He is.”
“We don't have anything to cry about this morning, New Testament. We have every reason to rejoice. God has seen fit to allow us to see another day, and I don't know about you, but I'm going to praise Him.”
With that there was no keeping the masses in their seats. Hands flew up in the air, and shouts of praise swept through the room.
“There's a verse in the Bible that says, ‘Touch not mine anointed, and do my prophets no harm.' Do you believe that, saints?”
“We believe it, Pastor,” was the unified response.

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