Selling My Soul Page 12

  He folded his hands together. “And what is that, except for another good idea? Don’t get me wrong. Religion is quite effective in controlling people. Causing them to be good and keeping society from getting completely out of control. Can you imagine what this country would look like if all the people that ascribe to various religions lived like heathens, doing whatever they wanted, living by their own choices? Chaos. Complete chaos.”

  “And so if you don’t believe in God, why would you even go into the ministry?” I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer to the question. Or maybe I didn’t want him to say what I already knew.

  He gestured to his large office. “What other profession could a poor black boy from Mississippi with no athletic ability, no great opportunity for education, and no natural skills at any trade do and be this successful? All I ever had was the gift of gab, and I’ve made it work for me. Well. People throw money at my feet on any given Sunday. People slip large amounts of money to me in a brotherly handshake. And they worship the ground that I walk on. Will do anything I ask at a moment’s notice. You’ve seen the way Ms. Turner waits on me hand and foot. Like I’m a king. I’m a man, just like her poor husband, but she treats me ten times better than him. Isn’t that ridiculous? It’s the American dream—money, power, respect.”

  “And it doesn’t matter if people get hurt in the process? If little boys’ lives are destroyed?” I could feel myself getting sick. And today I wouldn’t mind if I threw up on his fancy carpet.

  “Ms. Michaels, you act like I molested those boys. The only thing I did was to keep the church machine running. What do you think would happen to all my little sheep if some scandal were to come along that would destroy their image of me? Half of them would lose their religion if they figured out I’m not who they think I am. I’m really protecting all of them. What would they do without their religion?”

  “You’re sick. Disgustingly sick. I’m not going to do this anymore. Forget the money and forget Blanche. I don’t want to spend another minute in your presence.”

  “You sure about that? How’s Monica? I hear she’s pregnant. It would be a shame for anything to emotionally upset her and make her go into premature labor or something. Don’t you think?”

  I stood and stormed toward the door. When I slammed into the door to make my exit, I heard a little scream, and then a thud. I opened the door quickly and saw Ms. Turner lying on the floor. “Oh dear. Ms. Turner, are you okay?”

  Her eyes were wide open in horror. I was sure I hadn’t hurt her that bad hitting her with the door for her to look as mortified as she did.

  Bishop Walker hurried over to the door. “Ms. Turner, what are you doing on the floor?”

  She recovered and bent over to pick up the coffee tray that she had obviously spilled when I bumped her with the door. She used the napkin to sop the coffee and cream that had flowed into a puddle on the floor. “I’m so sorry, Bishop Walker. I was just about to come in with the coffee when Ms. Michaels came through the door. I’m so sorry. I promise to make a fresh pot right away.” She refused to look him in the eye, and her hands were trembling as she attempted to clean up the mess.

  Bishop Walker reached down and thrust his finger into the small amount of remaining coffee left in the cup. “It’s cold, Ms. Turner. Just how long were you standing outside the door, about to bring the coffee in?”

  Her eyes widened.

  Bishop turned to me. “That will be all for today, Ms. Michaels.”

  He gently grabbed my arm to stand me up from trying to help Ms. Turner clean up the items from the floor. “She’ll get that. I’m sure you’ll be in touch soon?”

  I nodded.

  He gestured toward the door. I was almost afraid to leave Ms. Turner alone with him. What would he do to her?

  “Ms. Michaels?” Bishop’s voice was firm.

  I shook myself and hurried toward the door. “Good day, Bishop.”

  Sixteen

  My thoughts were still reeling when I got into my car and started it up. How could this man have one of the largest churches in the city and not even believe in God? I thought about the fact that I had gotten saved at his church and had built a foundation of my Christian knowledge there. My life had been changed by his ministry, and yet, he was practically an atheist. Being a pastor was a profession for him—a very lucrative one at that.

  That explained how he could lie, scheme and not care about how lives were affected by his actions. All he cared about was the prestige and money. And he would do whatever it took to maintain them. How could God let him get away with that? Why didn’t God strike him with lightning, or let him get hit by a bus, or be killed by an angry swarm of bees?

  One last question drifted across my mind that did me in. Why did my mother have cancer and Bishop Walker was free and healthy to destroy people’s lives? Where was the justice in that? My mother never hurt anyone. In fact, she’d devoted her life to helping people. She did everything she could to provide a good life for me and my sister and took care of every stray kid in the neighborhood. No child would ever starve, be unclothed or homeless as long as she was alive.

  Part of what she said was right. She had lived all her life being good, but yet Bishop Walker, who had made a covenant with the devil, was prospering, and she was dying.

  I felt like God stepped into my mind to save me from the perilous thought train I was allowing myself to ride on. Psalm 37 slipped into my spirit.

  When I pulled up at the house, I walked into my living room and grabbed my Bible off the coffee table. I sat on the couch and turned to the scripture, reading it over and over. God assured me that I didn’t need to fret about Bishop and his evil doings. One day he would get his due reward. I was actually afraid for him what that would look like.

  As far as Moms was concerned, she had abused her body—pure and simple. She had smoked cigarettes all her life and lung cancer was a natural consequence of that. No amount of being good to kids could reverse that.

  Even if it were breast cancer or some other cancer that nothing she did would cause it, sickness was just a consequence of man being fallen. When Adam was perfect and sinless, his body wasn’t susceptible to sickness. Once sin entered, our bodies were fair game. Which was why Jesus went to the cross to reverse the curse so we could experience divine health again.

  But how could I get my mother to accept and believe that? Healing was available to her, but she didn’t want to have anything to do with it. And from everything I had learned in ministry training, bitterness and anger were major obstacles to God being able to heal someone. Worse than doubt and unbelief.

  How could I get my mother to release and forgive so she could receive the healing she desperately needed?

  God, please fix Moms’s heart. You know I can’t bear to lose her. Help her to forgive and release, then accept and believe. I can’t handle it if she dies, God.

  Before I could launch into a good intercessory session, my phone rang. I was about to ignore it and go ahead and pray, but I saw Monica’s number on the caller ID.

  “Hey, Monnie.”

  “Don’t ‘hey Monnie’ me. I can’t believe you.”

  “What?”

  “What? You know what. I just watched the press conference. That was your best work ever. Counseling for the victims, alleged this and alleged that, punishment to the fullest extent of the law. Even the bottled water and handkerchief and breaking down at the end and having to be carried away by Pastor Duncan. The whole thing had Trina Michaels written all over it. I know you, Trina. You’re my best friend, or should I say, were my best friend.”

  “Monica . . .”

  “I can’t believe . . .” she started crying, and I could barely understand her next words. “I can’t believe after everything this man put us through—put twenty-three families through—that you could do what you did.”

  She cleared her throat and sniffed. “You made him look completely innocent, Trina. I was watching in the office in the gym, and Talinda, one of my clie
nts, was with me. After it was all over, you know what she said? ‘That poor man. We’ll have to pray for him and his church.’ How can you do this? This is not the Trina I know.”

  She waited for me to explain myself. I was still stunned from her “were my best friend” comment. I put my Bible back on the coffee table.

  “Trina, has your mother’s health gotten you so stressed out that you can’t think straight? Are you so worried about her dying that you’re not able to hear from God?”

  “No . . . it’s just that—”

  “Is it the finances then? Are you so worried about money that you’re willing to sell your soul just to pay off some bills? If that’s it, we can lend you the money. We can give you the money.”

  “I couldn’t ask you to do that, Monica.”

  “I would rather do that than have you continue to help Bishop Walker. The money isn’t a problem. The gym is doing great, and Kevin’s album and tours even better. You know you have a pride problem and never want anyone to help you. Is your pride more important than you doing the right thing? Is money more important than you doing the right thing?”

  “It’s not that, Monica.”

  “Then what is it?” she shouted into the phone.

  I held my phone away from my ear some. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Then make me understand,” she screamed.

  I had to hold the phone even farther away. I remembered how Monica tore up their house after she caught Kevin in bed with his “friend.” I wondered if she were that angry with me now.

  “Monica, please calm down. Remember the baby.”

  I heard her taking some deep breaths. “Trina, I just need to understand why you’re doing this. Please, tell me something to make this better.”

  I thought about telling her about Bishop’s threat to out Kevin. That would change the whole course of this conversation. But if I told her, she’d be in the same conflicted state I was in. She’d have to ask me, her best friend, to do something she knew I didn’t want to do, just to save Kevin’s reputation and her wonderful life. As much as I didn’t want her to hate me for what I was doing, I didn’t want her to have to feel guilty about wanting me to do it for her sake. I didn’t want to put her in the position to choose between keeping the life she loved and doing the right thing by exposing Bishop.

  “Trina?”

  “Yeah, Monnie. I don’t know what to say. I can’t explain myself in a way that I think you’d understand. You just have to believe that I love you with all my heart and would never do anything to hurt you. You have to trust what our friendship has been and who you know me to be, Monica. Like you said, you know me. You know the kind of person I am. That’s all I can say. You know my heart.”

  Silence.

  “Monica?”

  “Okay, Trina. I gotta go.” She hung up and I could feel the distance between us becoming much more than the seven hundred or so miles between Silver Spring and Atlanta.

  I lay on the couch in the living room for a while. The day had given me a monster headache. The press conference, then the conversation with Lucifer’s spawn, then finally the phone call from Monica. I needed to do something to unwind and feel better. The thought of a bath didn’t do it for me. Visiting Moms, which normally would have been fun, would now be depressing and stressful.

  I couldn’t seem to remember what I did for fun before I left for Mozambique. Me and Monica used to hang a lot—going to the movies, out to eat, or having video night at my house. My monthly dates with Moms now weren’t a possibility. I wasn’t a big shopper and that would only make me feel worse right about now, anyway.

  In Mozambique, fun was completely different from fun in America. Sometimes we sat around the fire late into the night, listening to people tell stories. Other times, we hiked into town and treated some of the children to a meal at a restaurant. Me and Gabriel used to go hiking by ourselves sometimes and had great conversations about life, our hopes and dreams. Sometimes we’d go back to the mission base and us and the other missionaries would cook a huge meal together and sit for hours, eating, laughing, and talking until the wee hours of the morning.

  Fun in America involved some kind of mind numbing entertainment and food. In Mozambique, it was all about togetherness and a sense of community. Right now, I felt caught between the two worlds and didn’t know what to do with myself. My best friend now hated me, and even if she didn’t, she was miles away in Atlanta.

  I heard Tiffany’s key in the front door. Maybe I’d see if she wanted to get into something. She walked into the living room, and then stopped, frozen, when she saw me sitting on the couch.

  “Hey, Trina, what are you doing home?” She stood with an idiotic look on her face like I had caught her doing something she shouldn’t.

  “I had a rough morning and decided to finish the rest of my work from home today.”

  “Oh.” She rushed past me into the kitchen, looking more suspicious by the minute. She opened the pantry and started stuffing some of her junk food into a plastic bag. “You had that press conference, huh?”

  I nodded. “What’s up, Tiffany. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” She closed the pantry door, but stayed in the kitchen. “I just stopped in for a second, but I’m about to head over to Stacy’s house.” She clutched her bag and gave a little nervous giggle that made me know something wasn’t right.

  “Come here, Tiffy. Have a seat and talk to your Big Sissy for a second.”

  Her eyes widened. “But Stacy’s in the driveway waiting for me. I told her I’d be right there.”

  I patted the couch next to me. “Just for a second.”

  She dragged her feet over to the couch and plopped down. That’s when I noticed. She had a brand new, varnish-frozen hairdo, a fresh, French manicure, and her clothes looked hot off the rack. “You look nice, Tiffy.”

  Her eyes went down and to the right. “Thanks, Sissy. Me and Stacy are going out later. But we’re not going to drink or smoke or do anything. Just go to the club and hang out a little. You know.”

  I reached over and fingered the new jacket she had on. It had some fancy brand logo on it I recognized as being expensive. “This is a nice outfit. New?”

  She nodded and bit her lip.

  “Your hair and nails look nice too.”

  She looked down at the floor. She finally reached into her little Coach bag and pulled out a wad of cash and handed it to me. “Here. That should help out with catching up the bills and everything.”

  My mouth fell open. I reached for the wad and counted the bills. I could hardly speak. “Tiffy, where did you get a thousand dollars? And whatever else you got to be looking so good?”

  She shrugged.

  I closed my eyes and lay back on the couch. “Tiffany, I’ve had a rotten day. I don’t have the energy to play twenty questions to pull some information out of you. Can you just save me the trouble, and tell me where you got this money?”

  “My boyfriend.”

  “Your boyfriend?”

  She nodded.

  “He just reached into his wallet and pulled out a thousand dollars and gave it to you?”

  “Yeah. A little more than that, actually. I was feeling down, and he asked what was wrong, and I told him about Moms and how I messed up so bad with your bills and everything. He didn’t want me to be sad, so he gave me some money to help out.”

  “I’m not even gonna ask where he gets so much money to be able to give away a thousand dollars like it’s nothing.”

  Tiffany did her eye thing, and I knew the truth. I let out a deep breath. “Tiffany, I honestly don’t understand what goes on in that brain of yours. Do you honestly think I would accept money from a drug dealer to help with the bills?” I handed the stack of bills back to her.

  She stood up. “I don’t see why not. You’re accepting it from a man who covers up child molesters. I’d say between the two, yours is worse.”

  My mouth fell open. “Wha . . .”

  She dropped the
money on the coffee table and walked out the front door.

  Seventeen

  After going to my old church on Sunday morning, I decided to get on the road to head up to Moms’s. With everything that had been going on, I hadn’t had time to go early and spend some fun time with her. As late as it was, we’d only be able to have a nice dinner and get a movie from Blockbuster. I’d spend the night and would be ready to take her to chemotherapy first thing in the morning.

  Church was okay, but as I expected, nothing like the presence-infested services I had gotten used to in Mozambique. The music was good, prayer was good, and Pastor Reynolds taught a great sermon on the joy of the Lord, but still . . . I was used to hours of worship where each person felt like God was sitting next to them. Where we literally sensed the presence of angels in our midst. Where miracles happened, often without someone even laying on hands and praying.

  We had a saying that with the way the earth was rotated, Africa was much closer to heaven than America. Miracles were common and His presence thick.

  I thought it was because the people were so desperate and dependent on God. There, He was their only option. They didn’t have big hospitals, expensive medicine, or even clean water. If God didn’t heal, then death was certain. In America, we had the best hospitals, the best research, and the best medicine. Therefore God really wasn’t necessary, except as a last resort. And then it wasn’t like anyone believed He would actually show up.

  It was good to see some of my friends from church, but for some reason, I felt somewhat distant from them. Several of them promised to call and that we’d get together soon. Part of me hoped they would, so I wouldn’t feel so bored and lonely, but another part of me thought I’d still be bored and lonely even if we spent time together.

  When I called Moms to tell her I was on my way, she didn’t sound right. It seemed like her breathing was really labored, and she could only say a few words before she had to take another breath. All my freeway fears dissipated, and I drove as fast as I could to get to her.