Pastor Needs a Boo (19 page)

“Well, it's no wonder you have a home like this. You better—with all of that Meeting money,” Sonny said.

“My thoughts precisely,” Thomas told him.

Violetta came in with a glass of lemonade in her left hand. The seven-carat white sapphire, surrounded with black diamonds, sparkled and glittered in the dwindling sunlight. She sat down on Thomas's lap, hoping to make Marcel jealous.

“Bad move,” Sonny thought to himself. He wished he could give women a list of things that men wished they wouldn't do. And one of the first things he'd tell a woman was to never try and make one of your husband's boys jealous. Then, never ever come in and plop yourself down in the middle of a conversation that had “Men Only” all over it. What did a woman expect—that the men would capitulate because she was there looking fine, and start talking about stuff she knew they didn't want her to hear?

Thomas patted Violetta's hip and kissed her on the cheek.

“Girl, you fine,” he said in a smooth and low voice that had “Playah, Play on” all over it.

Violetta blushed and tried not to giggle. She said, “Thomas, not in front of our guests.”

Thomas gave Violetta the kind of smile a playah gave when he'd gone fishing and had the catch-of-the-day on his hook. He patted her hip again.

“Then, Baby, you need to take your fine, set de house on fire self off of this porch before the guests see even more.”

Violetta slid off of the bishop's lap and said, “See you two gentlemen in the morning.”

Thomas grabbed her hand and let it slide out of his as she walked off. He said, “Girl, you know you so fine.”

As soon as Violetta was out of earshot, Marcel and Sonny hollered with laughter. Marcel said. “Player, I think I'm gonna have to give you the blue ribbon award for Pimp of the Year. That was smooth. I would never have thought Violetta to be one to fall for the ‘but Baby, you so fine' line.”

Thomas grinned and sat back in his chair with his legs spread apart. He knew he was the man in his home. He said, “I'm always amazed at how well that works. Your woman tries to work game on you, turn it around on her and tell her she's fine.”

“I know,” Sonny said. “When one of my women get mad at me for calling Glodean while I'm with her, I finish talking to my wife and then turn to the woman and say, ‘Baby, calm down. You know you fine.'”

“Now, don't you two players get beside yourself,” Thomas cautioned them. “It doesn't work on every woman. A woman with a good head on her shoulders will catch it, and you will get your feelings hurt.”

“You ain't never lied, Thomas,” Sonny said. “I tried that on Glodean one time, and she put me in my place real fast. I never tried to run game on her like that again.”

“Was that before or after you stopped beating her tail,” Marcel asked in earnest. He'd always wondered what made Sonny stop hitting Glodean and start having normal disagreements like normal married folk. There were times Marcel threatened to kick Sonny's behind when he wouldn't stop hitting Glodean.

“Why did you have to bring that up, Marcel man? I stopped fighting my woman decades ago.”

“So, what made you stop? I really want to know, Sonny.”

“She did,” he answered solemnly. “Glodean started making all of that money and used her fat checkbook to shut me down. I raised my hand to her one day. She didn't even flinch—just said, ‘If your hand lands on me when it comes down out of the air, your American Express card, the car, and even your credit rating will change in a heartbeat. I make all of the money. I don't care that I make all of the money. But you better not hit me, or even think about hitting me, again, or else you will have to borrow some money from the homeless man.”

Marcel bit his lip. He didn't want to hurt Sonny's feelings by laughing.

“I never hit her again—been on the wagon for decades now. And it feels so good not to treat your woman like that. The aftermath of beating a woman is a horrible feeling—like the worse hangover you've ever had.”

“You're right,” Thomas said, even though there were times when he wanted to put his foot in Violetta's behind. He drained his lemonade.

“So, what do you two need that would make Marcel gas up his wife's jet to fly to St. Thomas? Could it have something to do with the race for bishop?”

Sonny and Marcel nodded.

“How can I help?”

“Thomas,” Sonny said, “are you ready to retire from being a bishop?”

Bishop Jefferson got real quiet and still. He made them wait a few minutes before answering the question. Marcel could hear the wind passing all through the sheer blue curtains on the porch.

“Not really. I like what goes with being a bishop in the Gospel United Church.”

Sonny sighed. He said, “Look, we need you to agree to retire if we are going to be able to win an Episcopal seat. A retired bishop still wields influence and clout.”

“A retired bishop doesn't preside over an Episcopal district, Sonny,” Thomas said in a quiet voice. He'd never realized how much being an active bishop meant to him.

Marcel was surprised at the bishop's response. He knew how much clout a retired bishop had. But it had not occurred to him how intoxicating it was to preside over a district of churches, pastors, presiding elders, and parishioners. He didn't realize they were going to have to do some real work to get Bishop Jefferson to go along with this plan.

Sonny was not as surprised as Marcel. He had been a bishop in the Gospel United Church since 1986, and was rapidly approaching his own retirement. Even though Sonny would appreciate being able to move at a more relaxed pace, he knew it would be an adjustment to relearn how to function without a district. It felt good to have all of those folks deferring to him when he visited churches and pastors in his district. Marcel would never be able to grasp what this felt like.

“Thomas,” Sonny began, “we need your help to get our candidate in a position to get elected. I know you are tired of the Theophilus Simmons and Eddie Tate faction running things their way. What I'm about to propose is the only way we can win.”

The bishop sat back in his chair. Sonny was right. He was very tired of Theophilus Simmons and Eddie Tate running everything and having the strongest influence in the church. They ran into a brick wall every time they tried to overturn anything those two implemented. It was becoming increasingly difficult for men like Thomas Jefferson and Sonny Washington to work the system in their favor when they met with the other bishops.

Back in the good old days, a bishop like Thomas Jefferson could put his cronies in key churches, he could influence the selection of Presiding Elders, and he could influence policies made at the Episcopal level. Even if folk didn't like what came down from the bishops, they would deal with it. Back then they didn't have to deal with women in the pulpit, they could come in a church and walk off with a lot of cash, and they could do what they wanted and have few worries about the church being upset and demanding answers.

All of those changes began in 1963 when the late Percy Jennings and his boy, Murcheson James, with the help of Theophilus and Eddie, stopped their opponents from putting their choice candidates in the office of bishop and demoted a bunch of pastors—Marcel Brown being one of them. Nothing had been the same since.

No matter what they did, how good the plan, and how much they fought the opposition, they always came up short. And even worse, they always lost what little ground they had gained when they were defeated just one more time. Enough was enough. Thomas knew he was going to have to man up, suck it in, and be prepared to step down from running his district.

He took a deep breath and said, “This must be a hell of a plan if you are asking me to step down and retire from my district.”

“It is,” Marcel answered him.

Sonny pulled a fat beige envelope out of his breast pocket and laid it on the table.

“For your troubles, Bishop.”

Thomas smiled and patted the envelope. He said, “Twenty-nine thousand USDs. A thousand dollars for each year I've been a bishop.”

“And one thousand to grow on,” Sonny told him grinning, as he reached back into his breast pocket and pulled out ten crisp, new one hundred dollar bills.

“I like your style, Bishop Washington,” Thomas told him.

“So, you want to hear the plan?” Marcel asked, now anxious to get this thing going, so he could go home. All of a sudden he was missing Detroit and Tweaki. That had been happening a lot lately. The episode with the church hoochie in Atlanta had scared him, and was making things Marcel used to thumb up his nose at more appealing.

“I'm all ears,” the bishop answered, as he put the money close to his ears, just so he could hear how good it sounded.

“I know you know one of the BMEs,” Marcel began.

Thomas raised an eyebrow. If this plan was connected to one of the Black Methodist denominations, he might have to back down. He fanned the money across his nose and sniffed. Maybe the smell of money would calm him back down.

“We aren't working with any of them,” Marcel said. “They are too straight-laced for my taste. Too many of them want to play by the rules. We are only going to use one of their new rulings to our advantage.”

“What new ruling?” Thomas asked, wondering why Sonny and Marcel were grinning like they had just hit the lottery.

“The one where one of the BMEs ruled that if a preacher in their denomination gets a divorce and remarries while the ex-spouse is still alive, he, and now she, cannot run for an Episcopal seat. And if he or she remains single, runs for bishop, and gets elected, falls in love, remarries, and that ex-spouse is still alive and kicking, old boy, and now old girl, will have to step down.”

“You are lying, Presiding Elder Marcel DeMarcus Brown,” Bishop Jefferson said. He couldn't believe they had come up with something like that.

“If I'm lying, my name is Theophilus Simmons. And you know how I feel about that Dudley Do-right brother.”

Thomas chuckled. “Yes, I do. There's no true love lost between the two of you.” He chuckled some more, and then got a pained look on his face.

“I don't understand why they would want to come up with something crazy like that. I've been a bishop long enough to know they are courting a lot more trouble than the new policy is worth.”

“I agree with you, Bishop,” Marcel told him.

“But they are very adamant about making this policy something their preachers can't get around. They are claiming this ruling is needed to make sure some bad eggs don't roll under the radar to win and occupy an Episcopal seat. But honestly, I believe it's about some of those old fogeys wanting to keep the best, brightest, and most innovative of their potential candidates from becoming a bishop.

“And we all know the honest preachers will not pretend they want to be married to somebody who isn't right for them. They don't like shams and acting like stuff is all hunky-dory when all hell is breaking loose up in their home. That group would look at their bishops like they were crazy and act like they had never even heard the word ‘bishop.'”

Thomas nodded. Marcel had a point. Even in their own denomination, it was the most honest and upstanding of preachers who would hunker down and weather the storm of a divorce rather than be dishonest and live a lie.

“The good preachers will remarry at some point,” Sonny said. “They are not going to meet someone, start loving that person, and then risk losing them forever because they were too much of a punk-A to marry that man or woman. And truthfully, I don't blame them. I can't imagine being a bishop without Glodean in my life and by my side.”

“Yeah,” Marcel added. “This group is not going to run around acting like they are happy and content to remain single. They want a boo and they know the Word says that it is better to marry than to burn. They also want to be true to the one they are with, and they will want a mate.”

“Which makes them extremely vulnerable to a ruling of this nature,” Bishop Jefferson said with a grin spreading across his face. “We can get rid of some good candidates for bishops—preachers who would side with Simmons and Tate—with this one simple policy.”

Bishop Jefferson got up and walked back inside of the house. He pushed the button on the intercom. A soft female voice said, “Do you need your cigars now?”

“And my Hennessey, and Crown for Reverend Brown, Violetta.”

“I'll be right there, Bishop,” Violetta answered, barely able to contain the excitement in her voice at being able to come back to where the men were talking. She wanted to see Reverend Brown, and try to get the inside scoop on their conversation.

The bishop sighed. He wished he had told Violetta to get this for him earlier. He knew she was going to do everything in her power to stay out on this porch with them.

Violetta showed up in record time. She rolled in a glass cart with an ice bucket, Fiji water, Hennessey, Crown, and a box of Cuban cigars.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” Thomas told his wife. He kissed her on the cheek, winked, and said, “Girl, have I told you how fine you are today?”

Violetta gushed and grinned. She said, “Only ten times today, Bishop.”

“Well, let me make that eleven times before you take your fine self on away from here. Girl, you fine.”

Violetta walked away, making sure her husband (and Reverend Brown) could see the easy and smooth swing of her hips. She turned back to make sure Thomas was looking, and Marcel was sneaking a look.

She was happy when Thomas winked again, and said, “Girl, hurry up and go on with your fine self.”

Violetta frowned when she saw Reverend Brown was busy texting.

When Thomas knew Violetta was gone, he put some ice in a glass, poured himself some Hennessey, and got a cigar. He twirled the cigar with his thumb and middle fingers, ran it under his nose, and sighed in delight. Thomas couldn't wait to finish snipping the end of the cigar so he could light up.