As soon as Ann walked up to me from behind and placed her right hand on my left shoulder, I knew that something was wrong. It was not clairvoyance; I just knew that Ann would never walk up to me in the middle of a Sunday service and place her right hand on my shoulder. It was not her style, period.
Bending down until her lips were just an inch close to my right ear, she whispered, “Reverend, they need you outside.” I turned around and looked at her in surprise.
“Right now?” I asked, forcing myself not to raise my voice.
“Yes, right now.” Ann replied. Her face was expressionless, but I knew she was not going to take no for an answer.
“But I can’t go out now,” I said. “I am about to preach in a few minutes.”
“Reverend, they really need you outside.”
At home it was always honey bunny, lollipop, or sweetie-pie, but in the church Ann made it a point of duty to always address me by my ecclesiastical title. I loved it that way, because it shows that she respects my divine calling as a pastor. I have a friend who is a reverend; his wife doesn’t respect him at all when they are in church. I have seen her hand him a grocery list right there in the church, in front of his flocks. Sometimes she nags and scolds him right in front of the people. Ann was different; at home she let me know that I was a mortal man who puts on his pants one leg at a time, but in the church she respects me as her pastor.
“What’s going on?” I asked. “I can’t leave now and you know that.”
The choir was in the middle of their special rendition and as soon they were done it would be my turn. “We have a serious situation outside, in the parking lot.” Ann whispered.
“Can’t it wait until after the service?” I asked, not even bothering to know what the situation was.
“I don’t think so, Reverend,” she said, shaking her head. “This is really serious.”
I sighed and got up. “Tell the choir to continue singing until I return.” Turning around, I headed for the door. After all these years of being married to Ann, I have learned that she was a woman with a very sharp, analytical mind. If she looks at a situation and says it is serious, there is a hundred percent chance it is.
I came outside the church and looked across the street towards our parking lot; the sight I saw stopped me in my tracks. A wild looking short woman, dressed in a mini-skirt that was way too small for her size, was pacing around in circles, talking animatedly. I could not hear what she was saying, but from the way she was flailing her hands and gesturing frenetically, I could tell that she was really ticked off. Each time she lifted her hands, her mini-skirt rode further up her thick legs, exposing more skin than was necessary.
A small crowd had gathered around her and they were all laughing and cheering her on. What in the world is happening here? I wondered, as I descended the church stairs. Some people in the crowd saw me coming and began to make way for me as I got closer. I don’t know if it was the blonde wig, or the inappropriately short skirt, or the way she was flailing her hands, but there was something about the woman that made her look scary. To put it more mildly, she looked like she just escaped from a psychiatric ward.
I could hear the woman more clearly now, as I got closer to the crowd. She was swearing at someone at the top of her voice and threatening to conduct a castration with her bare hands. The crowd greeted each obscenity-laced invective with loud cheers. With the ruckus they were making, I was surprised no cop had shown up yet — but then again this was Roxbury.
I suddenly spotted one of my deacons, Talbot Wilkins, standing docilely amongst the crowd. He had on a sheepish grin that made me suspect that he too was enjoying the whole drama. After years of serving as a deacon in our church, all I can say about Talbot is that he is as reliable as a dislocated ankle in a Boston
“What’s going on here, Deacon?” I asked, staring at the demented woman who was still ranting and swearing. “I don’t know, Reverend. She just showed up here like fifteen minutes ago and she’s been carrying on like this since then.”
“Did you try talking to her?” I asked curtly. “Did you try finding out what she wanted?”
Talbot looked at me like I was the one demented. “You are kidding me, right?” He asked, suddenly breaking into a smile. “You want me to walk up to Ms. Crazy over there and talk to her? I’m sorry, Reverend, my mama once said to me, ‘Son, never mess with an angry black woman.’”
“I don’t care what your mama said to you!” I snapped impatiently. “You are a deacon, for Christ sakes! I don’t have to be the one doing everything in this church!”
Talbot shrugged his shoulder dismissively. “All due respect, Reverend, I am not messing with that woman. She may be packing a firearm for all I know.” I stared at him for a few minutes, shook my head in disgust and turned towards the woman who was just a few feet away from us. She was completely oblivious of my presence.
“Can I talk to you for a minute ma’am?” I called out to her.
Spurning around with a lightning speed that belied her plus-size physique, the woman glared at me with a set of eyes that sent shivers through my spine. I am not an expert in demonology, but there was something about those eyes that made me suspect that she could be possessed by demons. The last time I saw a pair of eyes that glowed like that, was the night I found a stray cat in my tool shed.
It had been snowing heavily that night and I didn’t want my driveway to become a skating rink by the next morning. So I went out to the shed with a flashlight to go get a bag of snow salt. When I opened the door, I saw what looked like two pieces of red hot coals glowing in the dark. I quickly turned on my flashlight and directed it at the unidentified glowing objects; it was a tiny cat the size of a squirrel, curled up on the floor at the far end of the shed.
Without bothering to get the bag of salt, I turned around and fled back to the main house. Later that night, while sleeping I had a dream, and in my dream I saw five cats standing at the foot of my bed. They were all glaring at me just like this woman was doing right now.
“And who the hell are you, sir?” she yelled, as she took a couple of giant steps towards me. I am not going to lie, but at that moment, my first impulse was to turn and run. As I saw Ms. Crazy approaching me, all I could think of was that mysterious cat in my tool shed and the other five in my dream.
The only reason why I did not turn and run was because I had a reputation to protect. If the word ever got out that I fled from a woman, it would be the end of my ministry. Black folks don’t just want their preachers to be eloquent and charismatic; they want them to also be strong and fearless.
“I say who the hell are you?” The woman yelled again. She was so close I could smell her cheap perfume, mixed with the sweat pouring out from her pores. She reeked of alcohol and cigarettes as well. I noticed that Talbot had taken a couple of steps backwards. I was not surprised at all; the man was a coward and a weasel.
“I say, who the hell are you?” the woman barked again for the third time. She looked like she was getting ready to pulverize me if I didn’t answer her question speedily. The way she was glaring at me I could tell that she was sizing me up. If I showed any sign of weakness she was going to embarrass me in front of everyone.
Fixing my eyes squarely on her, I announced in a booming voice, “My name is Reverend Archibald Onesimus the third, and I am the senior pastor of Tremont Church of Resurrection.” I turned and pointed to our church building behind me, as if the brown building would add to my credibility.
“Well, Reverend, with all due respect, I must say that your church ain’t worth chicken shit!” She swung her head to the side and snapped her finger at me, just like the ghetto women do in the movies. “Watch your language, woman!” Talbot yelled, suddenly finding his voice but still lacking the courage to step forward. “You are talking to a man of God.”
“And who the hell are you?” the woman asked, glaring malevolently at him. Remembering what his mama told him, Talbot took another step backwards.
“I am Deacon Talbot Wilkins, and I am the leader of the church board.”
It was a blatant lie but I let it slide. Since its inception, the church board has never had an official leader, but I have been getting complaints from the other board members that often times Talbot acted like he was the leader of the group.
Deciding to ignore him, the woman turned to me, “You tell that baldheaded Negro to come out here or I am going in there and I will kick his butt.” The crowd burst out laughing.
“This ain’t funny,” She said, turning to the crowd. “I am dead serious. If that trifling-low-down-Negro doesn’t come out of that church right now, I’m a go in there and rip off his trifling balls.” The crowd roared.
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