Come Sunday Morning. Terry E. Hill

pleased and exuberant at the podium.

      After a final uplifting song from the choir and orchestra, Samantha joined Hezekiah on the stage. The last shot that appeared on the screen was that of the beautiful couple waving to the camera with a caption that read, “Always Remember, God Loves You And So Do We! To make a love offering, call us toll free at 1(800) 555-4455 or visit our Web site at www.NewTestamentCathedral.com.”

      The service had ended and members of New Testament Cathedral gathered in the Fellowship Hall. The cavernous room was filled to capacity. It served as the meeting place for thousands of congregants after the morning service. Sunday hats, which seemed to defy gravity, dotted the room: swirling turbans, perfectly erect feathers, fluttering satins, and wilting silks crowned freshly coiffed heads and made-up faces. Colorful dresses and well-constructed suits filled every inch of the room.

      The space vibrated from the roar of laughter and gossip. Words of encouragement were exchanged, assignations planned, schemes plotted, and reputations ruined. The multiple conversations fused into an indecipherable buzz above their heads.

      “Pastor Cleaveland outdid himself this morning,” came a comment from a cluster of women in the center of the room.

      “Jason got laid off last week. I don’t know what we’re going to do now,” was heard from two women huddled near the entrance.

      “I can’t believe she wore that to church. Looks like she should be at a cocktail party,” a woman said while rolling her eyes and shielding her mouth.

      “She should have left him years ago. He’s slept with half the women here,” was observed simultaneously by three different sets of women referring to three different men in the hall.

      “Look at him over there in the gray suit. Girl, that man is fine. All he would have to do is smile at me and I’d give him whatever he wanted and a little more just to make sure he came back for seconds,” said a woman as she peeked from behind her leather-bound Bible.

      Children balancing cookies on paper plates and spilling fruit punch from plastic cups wove through a forest of high heels and freshly shined leather shoes. The elder women of the church had taken seats against the rear wall of the hall, beneath a stained-glass window. Parishioners took breaks between animated conversations to kiss the church mothers weathered cheeks and tell them, “You’re looking good this morning, dear,” and that they were praying for them.

      Rev. Willie Mitchell stood in his usual spot in the center of the room. His bulging stomach made it impossible for him to button the coat of his favorite cream-colored suit. A red necktie formed a puddle on the top of his belly and then sloped down like a neon arrow advertising his oversized gold belt buckle. The thick hand in his pocket unconsciously caressed and massaged keys to a new appliance-white Mercedes-Benz. He threw his head back and laughed as Reverend Pryce’s wife, Cynthia, commented on the abrupt ending of the morning sermon.

      “I guess Samantha was afraid she’d be late for her afternoon manicure,” she said, checking to ensure no one other than Reverend Mitchell had heard her. The silk flowers on her hat shook as she spoke.

      “I’m glad he cut it short. I could hardly stay awake,” Reverend Mitchell responded.

      Unlike Cynthia, the reverend didn’t look over his shoulder. He wanted everyone to hear his harsh critique of the morning service.

      Hattie Williams graciously accepted kisses from the younger members. She sat embraced in the glow from the window and soothed by the warmth on her shoulders. Hattie was the senior mother of New Testament Cathedral. She had been a member since the first service held in the little storefront building ten years earlier.

      Hattie was eighty-two years old. She was a stately and imposing woman but her warm smile could melt away the fears of any troubled soul fortunate enough to be in her presence. Her silver upswept hair was held in place by a row of well-positioned black bobby pins. A shiny patent leather purse filled with tissues and peppermints matched her sensible Sunday shoes perfectly. Hattie wore a simple lavender floral-print dress with a white ruffled collar which she had made herself. In one hand she held a handkerchief used to occasionally dab perspiration from upper lip and in the other, the smooth curved handle of a wooden cane for maneuvering the steps in the church.

      A barrage of emotions suddenly pulsed through Hattie as she clutched the handle of the cane leaning against her swollen knee. She knew the feelings were not her own but instead belonged to others in the room. Sifting through the hidden passions and pain of others each Sunday morning had almost become a game for her. She inherited the empathic gift from her grandmother. Once she thought it a curse but now she considered it a blessing. Silent prayers were said for the more desperate cases and stern rebukes issued to those with nefarious intentions.

      She immediately recognized the pool of jealousy surrounding Willie Mitchell. That man’s going to have a heart attack worrying about how much money Pastor Cleaveland has, she thought.

      Hattie looked to her left and saw Scarlet Shackelford handing a cup of red punch to a little boy in a black suit with his crumpled white shirttail hanging from the rear. Scarlet’s chiseled face resembled a tormented angel imagined only in the mind of an artist. Her pastel silk dress twirled gracefully around the calves of her slender legs.

      Hattie preferred to keep a safe distance from the young woman. The pain she experienced in her presence was sometimes even too much for her to bear. That girl needs to forgive herself for having the pastor’s baby, she observed as she fought to block the still raw emotions pouring from Scarlet. It’s been over five years and still nobody knows anything about it.

      Hattie suddenly felt Samantha Cleaveland enter the hall. Only Samantha carried with her such extreme feelings of anger and hate and only Samantha could so skillfully conceal it from others. The hate however, was transported in a body that rivaled the beauty of a marble statue intricately carved by the hand of a master.

      Shoulder-length glimmering black hair surrounded her flawless pampered skin. The mint linen suit she wore had been designed to accentuate her sensuous curves. The heels of her elegant shoes were the exact height to contort her calves into the perfect feminine silhouettes. Proud, commanding, and in control, her body moved through the room as though carried on a horse-drawn chariot.

      She’s going to hurt somebody one day. Lord, you better keep an eye on that one, Hattie thought as Samantha passed. Hattie acknowledged her only with a slight nod of her head.

      The few remaining worshippers said their final good-byes in the parking lot.

      Reverend Mitchell honked the horn of his lumbering Mercedes and waved to the security guard at the gate as he turned onto Hezekiah T. Cleaveland Avenue. The street had been named in Hezekiah’s honor the year he broke ground for the senior citizen housing complex behind the church. If there were any other exit from the parking lot Reverend Mitchell would have taken it. He often wondered why his backroom lobbying against the street name change had failed. Maybe I should have made a bigger contribution to the mayor for his reelection campaign, he thought while plunging the car into oncoming traffic.

      Samantha Cleaveland waited patiently in the rear of the black Lincoln Town Car and watched as Hezekiah handed a twenty-dollar bill to a young man wearing a wrinkled shirt and pants too short for his long legs.

      “Who was that?” she asked as Hezekiah folded his body in next to her.

      “That was Melanie Jackson’s son, Virgil. He used to play drums for the youth choir. I had to fire him after the police caught him trying to break into the church. He was released from jail a couple of months ago. He said he’s been off drugs for over a year. You remember him.”

      “Yes I do remember him. He doesn’t appear to be off drugs. Don’t get involved with him, Hezekiah. He looks like he could be trouble,” Samantha said with contempt as the limousine turned onto Cleaveland Avenue.

      She prayed the driver would go faster and turn quickly off the street that bore her husband’s name. The sooner she was off that road the better she would feel. She regretted all the campaign contributions she had made and the luncheons she’d hosted to get the street