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Authors: Pat G'Orge-Walker

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BOOK: No Ordinary Noel
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Chapter 10
B
y the time Reverend Tom and Sister Betty finally arrived at the church, Brother Casanova had left. Neither the reverend nor Sister Betty knew about the meeting Bea and Sasha had held, so Bea gave them an update on the Seniors Prom.
Believing every word Bea said had the reverend almost shouting. “So there's going to be a packed hall and your committee has everything in order. I just love it!”
Sister Betty watched Bea telling her version of the truth. Sister Betty's knee had jumped with just about every word that flew out of Bea's mouth. That meant Bea was either delusional or lying. The odds were fifty-fifty either way.
“So you see,” Bea concluded, “when we sell off the T-shirts and auction off the dates, that's gonna bring a lot more money to the church.” Her face lit up. She didn't need to lean on Sasha for support. She could stretch the truth on her own.
Sister Betty decided she'd stay silent. Perhaps the reverend would forget about tossing her into the mix since he believed Bea and Sasha had it under control. Of course, she wouldn't have to go forward with any crazy plans to get Bea and Sasha out of her way. Every BS problem seemed as if it would resolve itself.
Reverend Tom offered to drop Bea off at her home. Although she lived in the opposite direction, he wasn't finished with his interrogation by a long shot. The ride would give him more time and with her stuffed in the backseat alongside a praying Sister Betty, Bea was apt to be more truthful.
By the time the reverend pulled up in front of Bea's building, she'd given up the skinny on the gambling habits of Sasha, three of the Mothers Board members, and about twenty other church members that gathered weekly at bingo. The only thing Bea didn't give up, according to her, was sex.
“But we still manage to pay our tithes no matter how little or how much we win,” Bea gushed.
“Mother Blister, how long have I preached against gambling?” Reverend Tom had to bite his lower lip to keep from jumping in the backseat. “If I am to believe all that you've told me, I've taken in gambling money as tithes, too?”
“It bought the robe ya wore at Brother Chauncey's funeral last year,” Bea replied. “Ya looked real handsome in it, too.”
She continued to reveal how many of the members held everything from backroom pool championships to running bets on who betted the most for the week. The football, basketball, and baseball seasons' gambling tithes kept the electricity paid at the church. “The most money we've made on a weekly basis comes from who can name the mystery meat served at Porky's on Thursday nights.”
Reverend Tom gripped the steering wheel so tight his pecan brown skin turned walnut black. He struggled to remain civil and pastor-like as he asked, “And why haven't I known about all this gambling going on right under my nose all these years?”
Bea didn't answer her pastor because she hadn't finished telling it all yet. She folded her fat arms and ran down the list of folks who didn't attend the church that often, but gambled and also paid tithes to keep the church going.
Sister Betty turned to Bea to signal her not to say another word but Bea liked being the pastor's pet for the moment. Sister Betty couldn't have stopped Bea with a bullet to the heart.
“To answer yo other question”—Bea beamed—“ya wasn't supposed to know, that's why ya didn't. Ain't ya the one always preaching about how to keep stuff in season and out? Well, knowing about gambling ain't in your season. The congregation knows how high fallutin' ya is, but we still love and admire ya for it.”
She leaned back and winked at Sister Betty who'd sunk back farther into the car seat. Bea didn't care. She was so proud she could've thumped the hump out of her own back.
Reverend Tom felt like a fool after learning about all the stuff going on in his church and right under his nose. He'd been so busy preaching about what they shouldn't do that he'd not paid attention to what they did do. “The Devil is a liar!”
It was the second time in one day the reverend felt like cussing. He couldn't and he wouldn't, but he could sacrifice Sister Betty and he did.
“Mother Blister,” the reverend said as calmly as possible, “I appreciate you and the Mothers Board, along with all the members of the church, but I fear we must revisit a few of our tenets.”
“I didn't know you visited tenants, Pastor. I thought you just went around praying for the sick and shut-in folk from our church.” Bea beamed. At that moment, she was truly proud of her pastor and his unselfishness.
Reverend Tom almost ground his teeth down to the roots trying to remain civil. “I meant tenets as in some of the laws and rules that govern our church.” He shook his head and made up his mind to just do it and not discuss it.
“I've decided to have Sister Betty work with your committee. She's an alternate member of the Church Board and you need a board member overseeing the prom.” He threw it out there the same way he'd have said, “Have a nice day.”
Before Bea could protest, Sister Betty spoke on both their behalfs. “I told you, I'm not well. I'm an old woman and I don't wanna die before my time.”
Bea exited the car without a word. Once she got inside the door she took off her coat, raced to the phone, and dialed Sasha's number. When Sasha didn't answer, she left a message. “Sasha, this ain't the time to act like ya still mad at me. We got a bigger problem 'cause Reverend Tom done throw Sister Betty on our Seniors Prom Planning Committee!”
It wasn't an hour later that Sasha arrived at Bea's apartment. As soon as she'd entered her living room and heard Bea's message about Sister Betty, she grabbed her hat, her cane, and called for a ride.
Over the years, Sasha and Bea had embraced the old adage the enemy of my enemy is my friend when it came down to Sister Betty's interference in their business.
No quicker had Bea let Sasha through the door, than she started. “Look at this clap trap you live in.” Sasha pointed to the mismatched green, purple, and orange kitchen chairs that had
flea market and yard sale
invisibly written on them.
“Listen up, Thumbelina. I didn't call ya to listen to ya mess. We'd better get Sister Betty off this committee. Ya know she's too holy-fied to work with us.”
At the mention of Sister Betty's name, Sasha's anger surfaced and reminded her why she'd rushed over. She threw her cane in the corner of Bea's living room and nearly decapitated one of Bea's fake potted palms. “You are right. We can insult each other any time. So what do you think we should do? Reverend Tom can be mighty hardheaded once he's made up his mind about some things.”
“We'd better hurry and think of somethin'. Thanksgiving is in two weeks and soon after is the Seniors Prom. I hafta finish up these T-shirts so it's gonna be up to ya to get rid of her.”
“Other than killing her I don't know what we can do.” Sasha let the thought linger just in case Bea wasn't totally against harming Sister Betty.
“Naw, we can't kill her,” Bea answered as she tried to tape the big leaf back onto the palm. “I've already been to jail. Ya would be somebody's appetizer and I wouldn't last past supper.”
With Sister Betty thrown on board the Seniors Prom sinking ship, they actually took time to ask God for permission to slay His right-hand gal. They also remembered to ask God to do something about the recession. Neither could afford their costly medications for their varied physical and mental needs.
And that wasn't good for them, the church, or the country.
Chapter 11
T
he next week sped by. On the Sunday morning before Thanksgiving, Trustee Noel arrived at Sister Betty's home as planned. They had been calling each other regularly since their meeting at the Shanty two weeks ago.
“Come on in, Trustee Noel.” Sister Betty led the shy man into the living room and offered him a seat.
“Thank you,” Trustee Noel said as his skinny body sank and almost disappeared into the overstuffed pillow at his back. “You have a lovely home.”
“I'm glad you like it.” Sister Betty noticed he wore what looked like something new. She wanted to say something but didn't want him to feel overwhelmed by kindness. “Can I offer you something to drink?”
Trustee Noel shook his head. He was nervous and needed at least one hand to twist that hair spritz on the top of his head.
When they'd chatted earlier in the week, they decided that although the trustee had the bank check for twenty-five million dollars, they doubted the reverend would change his position on what he'd called ill-gotten gains.
“He'd be a fool to turn down this check.” Trustee Noel had argued that point repeatedly. Once Sister Betty told him the bank had turned down the request for an extension twice, he became more adamant. “I'm on the Finance Committee. The bank is not playing. They don't lose.”
“I know,” Sister Betty replied. “The way the bankers see things, if the church loses the Promised Land, they get the land back, the structures, and the money from whoever purchases it. If the church uses your money, then the bank cashes the check, and they still have your money.”
“There's got to be a way we can put the squeeze on the bank and the pastor. If we can, the church doesn't lose the land or its leader. The bank will go after the reverend for certain if the loan isn't paid.”
“Well, we'd better come up with something,” Sister Betty said as she pulled her coat from the closet. The trustee rose and helped her with it. “Thanksgiving is next week and so is the Seniors Prom. Time is moving and we'd better be, too.”
When they reached Crossing Over Sanctuary the parking lot was almost empty. The worshippers who did attend trudged inside without smiling. It hardly mattered, because the ushers rarely smiled anyway.
Trustee Noel escorted Sister Betty to her regular seat behind Bea and Sasha. It'd been her assignment for years to sit there and spiritually handcuff them with prayer. If she weren't vigilant enough or even went to the bathroom during the service those two old women broke loose and ignored every church rule and protocol before the offering was raised. Sister Betty saw Sasha was seated, but Bea was nowhere in sight. That wasn't a good sign. Sister Betty was glad she hadn't shared her plan to get rid of them by paying them off. She was more certain than ever the reverend wouldn't have gone along with it, but she still didn't want any part of their planning committee.
As she looked around the empty seats of the sanctuary, she felt a sadness that almost smothered her. “My Sweet Lord,” she prayed. “You can't let Your people fall by the wayside like this. Lord, show me what to do.”
Placing her Bible on the pew beside her, she folded her hands. The choir, fewer in number, sang the songs of Zion as best they could. A few minutes later, those in the sanctuary stood, the weight of their individual situations etched on their faces. The heavy doors from the prayer room creaked as they slowly opened, signaling the pastor would emerge. Immediately the congregation opened their Bibles—their swords as they called them—and began to sing,
“Welcome into the place, welcome into this Sanctuary . . .”
Reverend Tom chose a deep purple long-sleeved robe with white and gold trim blazed along the hem and along the zipper line. He'd always referred to it as his fighting gear. The purple represented the Royal Priesthood that he took so seriously. The robe came to him as a gift from the Pastor's Aid Society. According to Bea the Pastor's Aid had sold raffles right there on the church grounds.
His eyes swept his congregation as he adjusted the heavy gold cross around his neck. He laid the small notebook that held his “thus saith Lord” sermon on the pulpit, feeling like a fraud, unworthy to lift the spirits of those who needed so much and had so little.
The truth was that the reverend did everything he could to avoid preaching that morning. Precious sleep had avoided him last night. The energetic light that normally shone in his brown eyes had faded and he felt as though his soul had suffered a blackout.
“Take your burdens to the Lord in prayer.” His soul wept and no one saw the tears. But he hadn't done that. His burden remained embedded because he'd refused to accept that he wasn't the Super Pastor. His head dropped and he laid a hand against one ear as he often did when the preaching got good. Not this time. His hand laid across his ear because he grappled with the sound bites Bea had pushed into his head.
He motioned for the choir to sing another song. He felt he needed more time to gain composure. He looked over at the Mothers Board. He saw Sasha, but couldn't find Bea as he scanned the congregation. Where was she? Had she thrown a stone and hidden her hand?
He couldn't get past it. Yesterday, in a fifteen-minute car ride, the old church mother, with her quirky outlook on life, and her customized church devotion, had yanked the covers off. She had managed to unveil not only his church members' flawed worship, but his as well.
Somehow, at the very moment, the choir sang
“I come to the garden alone”
and the congregation waited for a word from the Lord, Reverend Tom thought of Moses, who fell from favor and was not permitted to lead his people to the Promised Land. Would the same fate await him?
BOOK: No Ordinary Noel
2.3Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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