Pastor Needs a Boo (37 page)

He kissed her deeply again, and then planted several soft and warm kisses on her lips.

“We can finish this later,” Denzelle said and tweaked Marsha's ear playfully. He grabbed her hand and pulled her in the direction of the gymnasium.

They walked into the gymnasium thirty minutes before the program was scheduled to begin. It was packed to full capacity with folk from every Gospel United Church in the North Carolina Conference. Marsha had expected the regular church folk to turn out for this—especially the ones living in the Triangle. She had not, however, been prepared for the high representation of Gospel United Church preachers and their wives present tonight. The only reason that group was here was to find out what they were doing and take the information back to their own candidates for bishop.

“Veronica worked that marketing thing, didn't she?” Denzelle said, with a huge grin spreading across his face.

Folk didn't know how much it warmed a pastor's heart when his members did wonderful work for their pastor. A lot of people didn't realize how much flack pastors could receive on any given day. There was always a member who wanted to give his/her pastor a piece of their mind, or to complain about another member or assistant pastor. It felt good when someone did a good work on the pastor's behalf.

“Yeah. I am amazed at the number of folk who bought tickets and came.”

Denzelle pointed across the room to where the contestants were seated.

“Did you expect that many folk would want to compete in this?”

“No,” Marsha answered. “But I did expect it to be a lot of fun, and I'm confident it will be just that.”

“I agree,” Denzelle said, and grabbed her hand, leading them across the room to the other dancers.

“Don't forget that you have to give the opening prayer.”

“I didn't know I was doing the prayer.”

“Aren't you the senior pastor of New Jerusalem?”

Denzelle shrugged, and then asked, “Who is doing the welcome address?”

“Keisha.”

He laughed and went up to the podium where the microphone was. Judging from the looks of all of the contestants, this was going to be some kind of shindig. Denzelle couldn't wait to witness some of the dances he knew were going to be the talk of black-church Raleigh. He hoped he could keep it together and not fall out on the floor rolling with laughter.

Veronica Washington and Keisha Jackson walked up to the podium and stood next to Marsha and Denzelle.

“So, Pastor,” Keisha said. “How do you like me now?” She waved her hand around, gesturing to the entire room.

“I'd say I like you pretty well, little sister,” Denzelle said, and stuck his fist toward her for some dap.

“This is going to be a whole lot of fun,” Veronica chimed in smiling, and then she started frowning. “Why are they here?”

“Who?” Marsha asked, following her friend's gaze over to where Veronica's ex-husband, Robert, was standing with his arms around his current wife, Tracey Parsons Washington, whispering in her ear and laughing like he was having the time of his life.

“That is the biggest crock of poop I've ever seen,” Keisha said, rolling her eyes. “Robert knows he is not all that into Stewie.”

Denzelle started laughing, and then tried to stop. He was not supposed to laugh at his own parishioners like that. Even though he did not like Robert Washington and his wife, they were still a part of his flock. And as their shepherd, he was as responsible for them as he was for the members he liked. It was hard work being a good and upstanding pastor.

While Denzelle had the love of Christ in his heart for all of his members, he didn't like all of them. That had been a difficult issue to come to terms with when he was a new pastor. He used to think something was wrong with him, because there were some folks in his church he just didn't like. And when Denzelle confessed this shortcoming to his mentor, Bishop Eddie Tate, the bishop hollered with laughter, saying, “Is that all you are having trouble with—not liking some black people who need to be pimp-slapped on general principles? Young Blood, you need to be shouting and praising God if that is all you have to deal with as a pastor.”

“I wonder what that dance is going to look like?” Keisha whispered. “And where did she find a hat to fit her big head?”

“Why are Robert and Tracey dressed in army fatigues?” Veronica asked.

“Again,” Keisha whispered, “where did she find that hat to fit her big head?”

“We need to start,” Denzelle said in his best preacher's voice.

They were not the only ones who had some serious questions about Tracey Parsons Washington and her husband. Denzelle's fraternity brother Charles Robinson had come to support Veronica, and he wanted to know the same thing. In fact, he was surprised Robert had come out for an event for Denzelle Flowers. Robert Washington was not a Denzelle Flowers fan—especially after Denzelle gave him a dress down at the last Board of Trustees meeting.

Charles came and stood by his frat, and said, “Look at that joker standing over there looking like a broke-down G.I. Joe doll. He is still pissed that you took him down at the last trustees meeting.”

“Well, he's going to have a hissy fit when I replace him with you on the Steward Board.”

Charles raised his hands and said, “Whoa, Player. I'm still adjusting to the Trustee Board. I'm not so sure I'm Steward Board material.”

“Yeah, you are,” Denzelle told him. “You are a dutiful member of the church, you tithe, and you attend service regularly. I'm the pastor, I make these appointments, and I need you on the Steward Board.”

“D, dawg, it's me. I'm not like your other church members—know what I'm sayin'.”

Charles was not used to being a trustee, and he was nervous about an appointment to the Steward Board. While he was a dutiful tithing member of New Jerusalem, Charles was still the owner of Rumpshakers Hip-Hop Gentlemen's Club. And he wasn't planning on giving up that title any time soon. He wondered what was going on with Denzelle that would cause him to give him any of these appointments.

Denzelle knew where Charles was coming from. And Denzelle also knew what he was doing by appointing Charles to those positions in the church. He'd prayed about this and was surprised when the Lord led him to appoint Charles. When Denzelle looked upward in the middle of his prayer, he felt a peaceful tug at his heart, and was led to read the second chapter of Mark, verses 14 to 17.

Levi, or Matthew, was a rich tax collector who fellowshipped with rich and corrupt tax collectors. Yet Jesus called him to be a disciple, and even had dinner at Levi's house, with many of Levi's boys in attendance. Levi, unlike the Pharisees, gave up his profession to follow Jesus. The Lord made it clear to Denzelle that it was just a matter of time before Charles Robinson gave up his hold on the world to follow Him.

“Frat, you are saved—unlike some of my most dedicated so-called holy rollers at New Jerusalem. I know that is a well-kept secret, but you are saved nonetheless. Being saved is one of my primary prerequisites to hold major offices in my church. My stewards need to be saved. All of them are not right now. But they need to be, and I'm making some much needed changes on that front.”

Charles scratched at the stubble on his chin for a moment.

“I always wondered why certain folk were not trustees. It surprised me when you didn't appoint him.”

Charles pointed discreetly to a distinguished-looking brother sitting toward the back of the gym. The man was extremely well dressed in a black, chalk-striped suit, crisp white shirt, and navy silk tie with black velvet dots on it. He looked like he should have been waiting to give some kind of expert testimony at a congressional hearing.

“Who? Morris Palmer?” Denzelle asked.

“Yeah, Palmer,” Charles said. “Why isn't he a steward, D?”

Denzelle sighed heavily. Folk were always asking him about Morris Palmer and the appointment, or rather, the lack of his appointment to either the Trustee or Steward Boards at New Jerusalem. He said, “Morris Palmer is rich. Now, he's not as rich as you, Frat. But I think he is worth about eighteen million dollars.

“He has a fine wife, a fine woman on the side, no children, and a very lucrative cardboard-box factory in Butner, North Carolina. He has also been arrested four times for beating his wife and twice for throwing his fine woman out of his car while it was still moving. Palmer loves to make his wife come to church with him and pretend she is happy, and that he is the perfect husband.”

“Why is she still with him?” Charles asked.

“Money and status. That is the only reason because Morris is mean, and he doesn't have any game. That old man over there on the Hoveround with the oxygen tank and mask hanging off of the back of it has more game than Morris Palmer,” Denzelle answered.

“You're right on that one, Denzelle,” Charles said. “Genevieve is snooty, and stuck-up, and treats women who are not in her social group really bad. I would think that constant butt whippings and all of those other women would serve as some kind of wake-up call. But nothing has worked to convince Genevieve she can do better than Morris Palmer.”

Denzelle looked down at Marsha, who was studying Morris Palmer with great intensity. He was about to ask her what was wrong when Morris got up and walked across the gymnasium to where they were standing. His expert ho eyes scanned Marsha better than anything the TSA could use at the Raleigh/Durham airport.

Marsha shrank back when she saw the cold glint in Morris Palmer's eyes. She didn't like this man. He was horrible.

Denzelle moved Marsha behind him so that Morris could not stare her up and down. He was about to say something when Keisha pointed across the room and said, “What in the world are they doing here?”

They all, Morris Palmer included, followed Keisha's finger pointing at Reverend Xavier Franklin, Camille Franklin, and Tatiana Townsend. Keisha could not believe Tatiana was walking up in here, hot on the heels of her married man. She also couldn't believe the girl came in here acting like she and Todd would be able to get on the list of dancers at the last minute. Keisha was so glad she had a time limit on the registration dates.

“Please tell me that Xavier Franklin and his wife are not in the competition?” Denzelle asked. He could tell by looking at Xavier and Camille that they couldn't dance. Denzelle didn't want to be so uncouth that he would practically laugh in Xavier's face when they did whatever stupid-looking dance they came up with.

“Lord, Patra is in the house,” Marsha blurted out—glad that mean Morris Palmer was on his way back to his seat. The last thing they needed was for him to overhear her comment about Bishop Jefferson's newest wife. Morris Palmer was a tattletale and would report everything said about Patra to Bishop Jefferson just to get back at Denzelle.

“Patra?” Veronica asked. “What about Patra? Who is like Patra?”

“Is that Violetta?” Charles Robinson asked. He was looking like he was ready to run and get her autograph.

“Violetta who?” Veronica asked Charles. She was curious to know who had him riled up like that.

“You know, Violetta, Violetta,” he said.

“And?”

“Veronica, did you ever see the music video, ‘Burn de House Down'?” Denzelle said, when he realized she needed some help with understanding why Charles, or any man for that matter, would get so excited over seeing Violetta, the dance hall queen, at a church event.

Veronica shook her head.

Charles said, “‘Burn de House Down' is a video with the bishop's wife on it, from before she was the bishop's wife. It made Violetta famous. And I have to tell you, old girl was working it on that video.”

“Yes, lawd, she was ‘wurkin' it,'” Denzelle said, cracking up. “I hope she is going to dance tonight.”

“Me, too, playah,” Charles said, and held his hand out for some skin old-school style. “I tell you, if the ‘supervisor' works it like she did on that video, she'll have every old playah in this room trying to get her number.”

“Don't wish that on us, Charles,” Denzelle said in a serious voice. “Last thing I need is for Bishop Jefferson to be more put out with me than he already is.”

“Rev,” Keisha said. “We need to get this party started.”

 

Chapter Twenty-eight

Keisha hit the microphone at the podium, and then blew into it to make sure it was on. When the “bloooosh” of her blowing sounded out around the room, she said, “Good evening!”

“Good evening,” the people in the audience echoed back.

“Are you ready for some good dancing?”

“Yeah!!!!!”

“ALRIGHT!!!!” Keisha said with a whole lot of pep and excitement in her voice.

She took a quick survey of the room and stifled the urge to sigh with relief. Bay Bowser was able to get off at Rumpshakers early. She saw him watching her and found herself blushing.

Charles Robinson saw his employee, Bay, come in. He hadn't missed the way Bay's face lit up when he saw Keisha. But Keisha's blushing came as a surprise to him. Charles had never seen Keisha Jackson blush about anything.

“I'm glad Bay is really, really saved,” Charles whispered to Denzelle. “'Cause old boy would hit that if he weren't.”

Keisha tried not to stare at Bay too long. He was looking so fine in charcoal slacks and a light gray polo shirt. She wanted to fan herself when she noticed his biceps in that polo. Bay looked like a slightly older and browner version of the actor Laz Alonso from the TV show
Breakout Kings
and the movie
Jumping the Broom.

She patted her freshly done hair. It was looking good, with reddish-blond streaks running through the new cut—a chin-length bob, with a heavy bang falling in her face. Keisha stuck out her leg, with the shimmery navy stockings and navy glitter platform pumps, so that Bay could catch a glimpse.