The Bishop's Daughter Page 2

  “Okay, you’re not sprung. I believe you. That’s actually a good thing, because then you won’t miss me when I go to Atlanta.”

  “So you’re serious about this?”

  I fold my arms across my chest and nod emphatically. “It is my duty as a journalist to expose the charlatans and inform the people.”

  “You better be careful. The Bible says, ‘Touch not my anointed and do my prophets no harm.’”

  “Look at you quoting Scriptures. I’m impressed. And don’t worry about me. If your precious pastor is everything that he says he is, then he has nothing to worry about.”

  Chapter Two

  DIARY OF A MAD BLACK BLOGGER

  How many of y’all go to chutch? Naw, dog, I ain’t misspelled nothing! Not church … but chutch? Let me break down the difference. Church is where you go to hear about the goodness of the Lord, hear some delightful singing, let the ministers pray for you, and go home feeling refreshed. Chutch is where you go to see what fly suit your pastor is gonna be sporting. Chutch is where your pastor rolls up in the parking lot driving a clean white Escalade with spinnin’ rims. Chutch is where the ursher (again no misspelling) board is all wearing matching bedazzled jean jackets. Chutch is where Keyshia Cole is up singing with the praise team. And let’s not forget the most telltale sign of a chutch. Chutch is where Profit or Profitess Such and Such is gone call for a thousand-dollar line at offerin’ time.

  My girl was watching some preacher on television this morning (still wearing her lingerie from the night before … but I ain’t mad). I couldn’t call it, though. He had a nice little crowd going, and some folks were definitely trying to get some deliverance. This dude might actually have a church. But since my fornicatin’, tithin’ and offerin’-paying FOTW (freak of the week for the newbies) is watching, more than likely, it’s some good old-fashioned toe-stompin’ CHUTCH!

  Mad Black Blogger is OUT. Hit me up with ya’ comments!

  Chapter Three

  Darrin

  I’m sitting at my parents’ table, doing the obligatory once-a-week family dinner. Priscilla likes the illusion that her family is in harmony and the two most important men in her life are the best of chums. I lock eyes with my father, Big Mathis. It seems like neither one of us wants to be here.

  Physically, my father is an intimidating man. He stands six feet three inches and weighs nearly three hundred pounds. The hair on his head and face is a stark white. So white, in fact, that it’s hard to believe once upon a time it used to be black.

  I slowly breathe in and out, trying to calm my nerves under Mathis’s intense stare. I will not start any arguments with Mathis. Will not engage in any arguments with Mathis. My mission is simple. I need the money for my Atlanta expedition, and I need to convince my father to give it to me.

  Actually, it’s not as simple as it sounds. Mathis Bainbridge is a complex man. Priscilla is much better at reading him than I am, but over the years, I have picked up on clues to his temperamental mood swings. I like to think that I’m fairly accurate.

  The key is the way he chews his food.

  Sounds crazy, but it has rarely failed me. If he’s chewing slowly, taking his time and savoring the meal, that means he’s had a good day. A good day means the bank is open. If he’s gnawing his food rapidly, like a caveman ripping into a raw brontosaurus steak, he’s on the warpath. Consequently, the bank is closed.

  Tonight he’s chewing slowly.

  “So, Dad, I’m working on a new story. This one is big.”

  He gives a favorable grunt as his reply. That means I should continue.

  “It’s about that huge mega-church pastor in Atlanta, Bishop Kumal Prentiss.” I hope he can’t hear the nervousness in my voice.

  He scratches his hair and raises an eyebrow. I’ve got his attention. “The one who comes on Sunday morning?” he asks.

  “Yes, that’s the one.”

  Priscilla smiles. She loves a story about church. “What kind of story are you going to write about a bishop?”

  “An exposé. My journalistic instincts tell me that there is a scandal brewing somewhere in that congregation.”

  “Why do you have to go all the way to Atlanta to write about a crooked preacher? We got plenty of them right here in Cleveland,” states Mathis, as if he knows it to be a fact.

  “Oh, you just hush your mouth, Mathis,” fusses Priscilla. “I don’t like the idea of my son digging up dirt on such an influential black man. He could become our next Martin Luther King.”

  Here she goes. I bite my lip, trying to maintain my composure while thinking of a comeback. “I guarantee you, Mother, this man is as slick as Bronner Bros. oil sheen.”

  Mathis gets right down to business. “And how do you plan to pay for this little adventure?”

  Inside my chest cavity, my heart starts pounding and my breaths become faster and shallower. I can’t let Mathis take this to our recurring argument. I’ve had this same conversation so many times that I call it the Groundhog Day discussion. I feel just like Bill Murray in that silly movie, where he keeps repeating the same day over and over and over again. Sometimes I gain a little ground, sometimes I lose a little.

  “It’s not an adventure, Dad. This is my career.” My tone gives away my frustration.

  “When you start making money instead of spending mine,” says Mathis, laughing, “then we’ll call it a career.”

  Déjà vu totally kicks in. I let out an exasperated sigh. “Mother, please talk to him.”

  “I don’t know, Darrin. This story doesn’t sound like a good idea. Why don’t you write a piece about my Jack and Jill chapter? We’ve given a lot back to the community this year.”

  Great. I don’t even have Priscilla on my side. We can usually double-team Mathis and wear him down. Looks like I’m all alone on this one.

  “Dad, I promise this is the last time.”

  Okay, I don’t really mean that. But I’m grasping for straws here.

  “Right,” says Mathis. “Until the next time.”

  Mathis grunts something further under his breath and goes right back to eating his food. And now … he’s gnawing. But I can’t stop now. I need to write this story like a hemophiliac needs a blood transfusion. (I know that’s graphic, but I really need to write this story!) I feel something akin to desperation in the pit of my stomach.

  “Come on, Dad. Aren’t you just a little bit curious about what this man is doing with ten percent of the income of twenty thousand poor black folk?”

  He wipes his mouth with his napkin. I think I’ve struck a nerve. Looks like he’s seriously considering it.

  I continue, “He probably drives a Bentley! Dad, you don’t even drive a Bentley. And I bet he’s never worked a day in his life.”

  Priscilla gasps. Her pretty little mouth goes into a frown. I’m upsetting her, I know. But it can’t be helped. Sometimes in my battles with Mathis, she’s an innocent casualty.

  I boldly add another log to the fire. “You know what? I bet he’s womanizing all the single women in his church.”

  Mathis glances at Priscilla. “Probably some of the married ones, too.”

  Priscilla glares at Mathis and slams her fork down on the table. Wait a minute. Did I just miss something?

  “Your father,” hisses Priscilla, “has accused my pastor of all types of ungodly mess.”

  Looks like the story might be right here. I haven’t seen Priscilla this angry in a long time. Not since she caught me in bed with the debutante I escorted to the Jack and Jill cotillion.

  “I stand by each and every one of those accusations, and I will until the day I die.”

  I can’t help but ask, “What accusations?”

  Mathis roars, “Let’s just say that I caught your mother in a very compromising position with that Pastor Thomas.”

  “Mathis!” Priscilla stands up at her seat.

  “He’s a grown man. He knows the facts of life.”

  My head is spinning. Entirely too much information. I don
’t care how grown I get, I don’t ever want to know about my mother doing something like that. I don’t even want to think of her having sex with my father. Prefer to believe I was left on the doorstep.

  “Your father is lying. I have never had any inappropriate relationship with any man, much less my pastor.”

  For the sake of my sanity, I choose to believe my mother.

  Mathis laughs and shakes his head. I know him well, but for some reason, I can’t interpret this body language.

  “You know what, son? I’m going to fund this trip. It’s about time somebody exposed some of these rotten hypocrites.”

  Okay … this is a victory, but somehow it doesn’t feel like one. I feel guilty about the tears forming in my mother’s eyes and the glee dancing in my father’s.

  “But,” continues my father, “this is the last time you’re getting money from me. If this doesn’t work out, you’re getting a real job. It doesn’t have to be at Bainbridge Transports, but I’m not taking care of you anymore.”

  I think my heart stopped. Big Mathis has raised the stakes, and I don’t know if I want to bet my easy life on a could-be crooked pastor.

  “Dad, sometimes it takes a while for this kind of thing to materialize.” I try to sidestep, give myself some time to form a backup plan.

  “You’ve got until the end of the year.”

  I protest, “But it’s already September.”

  Mathis clears his throat. “Then you had better get moving.”

  “It’s on and popping,” I tell my best friend, Leon, as I put the finishing touches on our submarine sandwiches.

  “What’s on and popping? And when did you say the fight was coming on?”

  “Pops is fronting me the money for Atlanta, and the fight doesn’t come on until eleven.”

  “Seriously! All right, now. Atlanta is the home to lots of fine, thick black women! As soon as I get a chance, I’m visiting.”

  I laugh as I watch Leon rub his hands together hungrily. He is obsessed with what he calls “thick” women, but he and I have totally different ideas on our definitions of thick. To me, thick is no larger than a size twelve, but to Leon, thick begins at size sixteen. It doesn’t help matters that Leon is all of one hundred fifty pounds on a six-feet frame. The brotha has a Jack Sprat complex.

  “You are not coming down to my crib and filling it up with all of your big girlfriends.”

  “Don’t hate just because I want me a girl who can fry chicken and make a sweet-potato pie.”

  “Thin girls can’t cook?”

  Leon raises an eyebrow. “How many do you know who can?”

  He always wins this argument, because he’s right. Out of all the model types I’ve ever dated, not one of them has even been able to boil a hot dog. Shayna is probably the worst. I knew she was a lost cause when she tried to bake a can of Pillsbury biscuits in the microwave.

  I take a bite of my sandwich. It’s perfect. “So Priscilla is going to find an apartment for me and have it all decked out when I get there.”

  “Must be nice, man.”

  Leon always finds a way to make me feel uncomfortable talking about my family’s money. He grew up in a single-parent household with his mother working two jobs to be able to save enough money for his college education. Every time I mention anything about my parents giving me money, Leon’s quiet contemplation makes me feel materialistic.

  Leon asks, “So what are you going to do about Shayna when you leave? She’s making wedding plans, you know.”

  “Man, listen! I don’t know how many different ways I can say ‘Baby, let’s slow down.’ She ain’t hearing it.”

  “I told you to stop cooking for these women, man. That’s what gets you in trouble. All that cooking and sweet-talking, and you’re right out of every black woman’s fantasy.”

  “Here you go.”

  “Man, I’m serious. How many women do we know who grew up with a bunch of women and not one man in sight? To them, the ideal man is the one who is going to cater to their every whim while they sit up and eat that pasta stuff you be fixing.”

  “Man, you are a fool!” I can’t help but laugh, even though I’ve heard this all before.

  “I speak the truth, man.”

  My doorbell rings, and I jump up to answer it. I’m not expecting anyone; tonight is fight night. Usually me and Leon kicking it in an estrogen-free environment. I look out the peephole.

  Speak of the devil and she’ll appear. My head starts pounding with a frustration headache. This woman insists on making our bedroom romps permanent, and I’m not there yet. Don’t know if I’ll ever be there.

  I hesitate before opening the door, but she ain’t having that. “Darrin, you better quit playing!”

  “Shayna … what’s up?” I ask with the fakest smile ever.

  She kisses my lips like she doesn’t see my boy and our grub. She knows this is the “no ladies” night. She purrs, “Baby, I was just thinking about you, and I had to see you. I haven’t heard from you all day.”

  She hadn’t heard from me, since I hadn’t called. I’d spent the whole day packing for my Atlanta trip. I hadn’t even thought to call. And I don’t feel like being smothered with her ‘love talk.’

  “I know. I’ve just been busy.”

  “Hey, Leon,” she says to my friend. He grumbles under his breath.

  She glances over at three boxes in the corner, then looks at me for an explanation. “You giving some stuff away to the Purple Heart veterans?” she asks.

  Okay … trying to think quickly. I don’t want to tell her about Atlanta yet. Want to wait until the day before I leave.

  “No … not exactly,” I reply as I nervously shift my weight from leg to leg.

  She notices my jitters and is immediately suspicious. She hits me with rapid fire, her red curls bouncing like flames. “Looks to me like you’re moving. Or is someone moving in with you? You cheating on me, Darrin? Who is she?”

  How did we get from Purple Hearts veterans to cheating? I will never, ever understand this woman’s thought process.

  Might as well tell the truth and get it over with. “My father is giving me the money to go to Atlanta.”

  “I can’t believe you are still on that. You’re really going to write a story on Bishop Prentiss?”

  “Yes, I am, and I cannot wait to get started.”

  “So when do we leave?” Shayna asks timidly.

  “We?”

  I knew this was coming; that’s why I didn’t want to tell her. But Shayna can go on somewhere with that noise. The only word I’m feeling for her is lust, so there is no way I’m bringing her to Atlanta with me.

  “Yes, we! As in you and me,” she replies indignantly.

  “You are not going to Atlanta with me.”

  I say this slowly, calmly, deliberately. Don’t want her to have a scene in front of my boy. I want to end the conversation without any casualties, but the deep frown on her face is telling me that battle wounds are on the way.

  “Baby, did you forget you have a job?” I ask, “baby” slipping off my tongue like I really mean it. “I have no idea how long I’ll be gone.”

  “No, I didn’t forget about my job, but you’re rich. I shouldn’t have to worry about working if we’re together.” Shayna’s bottom lip protrudes in a juvenile-looking pout. I hate when she does this.

  “My father is rich. I am not.”

  Leon rolls his eyes and sucks his teeth. Shayna glances at him with much attitude and continues, “Same difference. I don’t know if I can do a long-distance relationship, Darrin.”

  I wince like she’s stabbed me with a knife. “There you go with that word again.”

  “What word? ‘Relationship’?”

  I wince again and clutch my side. Leon snickers and takes a giant bite from his sandwich.

  “If we don’t have a relationship, Darrin,” asks Shayna, “then what do we have?”

  “Why do you have to define everything all the time? Why can’t we ride things
out and see how they go?”

  With a burst of angry energy, Shayna spins on her heels and heads for the door. I half want to let her go and forget we ever met, but the view of Shayna leaving is too much for a brotha like me. I can’t let that fine woman walk away hating me. As wrong as I do them, most of the women I lust and leave still want me. Shayna won’t be any different.

  “Don’t you even want to know when I’m leaving?” I ask, trying to stall her while I think of something good.

  Shayna takes a pause but doesn’t reply. I know she’s thinking about it. She doesn’t want to let me go so easily, either.

  “Baby, why don’t you come over here and give me a hug? I am going on the road, remember? You don’t want me to be all love-deprived when I get to Atlanta, do you?”

  I watch her anger subside and the frown melt away from her face. I’ve still got it.

  She turns and hugs me, punctuating the action with a slow grind. I almost want to tell Leon to scram so we can finish what Shayna is trying to start. But that would be counterproductive. Plus, I really want to see this fight.

  I try to reassure her. “Look, girl, I’m not going to Atlanta to hook up with another woman, I’m going there to work.”

  “I know you, Darrin,” she replies.

  “If you knew me, then you’d know this is not about finding a woman, Shayna. It’s about my career.”

  Convinced, she wraps her arms around my neck and squeezes me again in a tight embrace. This time her exclamation mark is a deep tongue kiss that weakens my knees.

  She says, “Don’t forget about all this while you’re in ATL.”

  “How could I?” I respond truthfully. “I’ll call you from Atlanta.”

  Shayna walks out of my door, maybe out of my life. I will call her once or twice while I’m in Atlanta, to smooth the transition and keep her from doing anything nutty. But I’m cooling this down. I’m not trying to be anyone’s husband or, worse, baby’s daddy, and Shayna is getting way too serious for my comfort.