The Preachers Son

  I stopped dead in my tracks.

  I realized it was not my mother, as I had expected. It was the vibrant and sexy Anita Bell, the only woman I’d ever loved, or at least thought I loved.

  “Anita.” I gasped as my eyes quickly roamed over her body. Anita was dressed in a very conservative white church dress with white heels, but her voluptuous body made anything she wore look provocative.

  “Dante.” She smiled.

  She locked the door then stepped closer to me. She kissed me with her full lips. “I missed you, Dante,” she whispered.

  She kissed me again before I could respond. This time she wrapped her arms around me and I did the same, closing my eyes. Our kiss was so passionate it took my breath away. When it was finally over, we stayed wrapped in each other’s arms and stared lustfully into each other’s eyes.

  “God, I missed you, Dante,” she whispered.

  “I missed you, too,” I said as I gently pushed her away. “Just not enough to commit adultery. Where’s your husband?”

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  The PREACHER’S SON

  Carl Weber

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  This book is dedicated to the late minister Tyrone Thompson, the man who taught me more about God, the church, and living on this earth than anyone else. Rest in peace, my friend. I’ll see you when I get there.

  Acknowledgments

  First off, I have to thank God. Without Him none of this would be possible.

  Thanks to all the book clubs and fans who have read my books. It’s you who make this whole thing worthwhile and get me up at three in the morning to write. I know this story is a little different from the kind I usually write, but I think you’ll enjoy it.

  To Karen Thomas, my editor and my friend. You’ve taught me so much about the industry, more than you probably realize. Thanks. I’ll always be grateful.

  To Walter Zacharius, Steven Zacharius, Laurie Parkin. Thanks for believing in me and my dream for Urban Books.

  To Robilyn Heath, my right hand, and Roy Glenn, my left hand, thanks for all your hard work and help with Urban Books. To my Urban Books family, you are some of the most talented people in this business. With a little hard work I’m sure you will all achieve your dreams.

  Thanks to Paul Chin, my attorney. Thanks for watching my back as I crawl through the maze of the publishing world.

  Thanks to Linda Williams, Linda Gurrant, Valerie Skinner, Marlene Hernandez, and Ann Murphy—my readers. You have been a help that I can’t even explain.

  Thanks to Maxine Thompson. I could not have done this book without your help. Good luck in all you do.

  Thanks to Marie Brown, my agent and second mother. You’ve done a great job, and I may not say it enough, but thanks. Your hard work and support are highly appreciated. Last but not least, I’d like to thank all the black bookstores that helped to make my career a success. I’d especially like to thank Gwen Richardson at Cush City in Houston, Texas. Gwen, I know it seems like every time I’m supposed to be headed your way something comes up. But these things are really happening. I hope you’ll let me make it up to you and your customers.

  Well folks, until So You Call Yourself a Man hits the stores next year, thanks for the ride. It’s been great.

  Oh, and if you get a chance, holler at your boy. UrbanBooks@ hotmail.com.

  Contents

  Prologue

  1 Dante

  2 Donna

  3 Dante

  4 Tanisha

  5 Donna

  6 Dante

  7 Tanisha

  8 Dante

  9 Donna

  10 Tanisha

  11 Dante

  12 Donna

  13 Tanisha

  14 Dante

  15 Donna

  16 Tanisha

  17 Dante

  18 Donna

  19 Tanisha

  20 Dante

  21 Donna

  22 Dante

  23 Donna

  24 Shorty

  25 Donna

  26 Shorty

  27 Donna

  28 Donna

  29 Shorty

  30 Donna

  31 Tanisha

  32 Donna

  33 The First Lady

  34 Shorty

  35 Tanisha

  36 Donna

  37 The First Lady

  38 Dante

  39 Tanisha

  40 The Wedding

  41 Dante

  42 The First Lady

  43 Dante

  Epilogue

  A Reading Group Guide

  Discussion Questions

  Prologue

  “Family values…” Bishop T.K. Wilson paused for effect and looked down upon the crowd of people. He took a breath and repeated his words in his strong, baritone voice. “Family values…Family values!” Each repetition was more animated than the last. He was holding a microphone in one hand, waving a Bible in the other, as he moved back and forth across the stage in what he liked to call his preacher’s strut. “What has happened to family values in this community? In this country?” he shouted, then paused again, as if expecting a response from his audience.

  T.K. Wilson was the pastor of First Jamaica Ministries, arguably the largest African-American church in Queens, New York. A tall, handsome man with chiseled features and a well-maintained salt-and-pepper beard, he was not only a very good minister and administrator, but a dynamic speaker as well. You could almost see him reeling in each and every one of the five hundred or so people who’d flooded into Roy Wilkins Park for the free hot dogs, sodas, and balloons for the kids that his church was giving away. It was all part of First Jamaica Ministries’ voter registration campaign. This year the registration campaign was even more crucial, because it was also the year that their pastor hoped to become the next borough president of Queens.

  “I’ll tell you what has happened to this country and this community,” T.K. continued. “They’ve gone to hell in a handbasket! That’s what’s happened to them. And why have they gone to hell in a handbasket?” He used his signature dramatic pause again, then emphasized his words with a wave of his hands. “Because this community has no role models! No one to look up to. No one they can go to when there’s a problem. No one they can rely on to make sure your children and homes are safe. And to be quite frank, no one who cares.” He lowered his voice. “Well, brothers and sisters, that ends today, right here and now.” He pointed to the stage before him. “ ’Cause if no one else will step up and be the role model that this community needs, then I will. And that’s why I’m running for Queens borough president!”

  There was an immediate explosion of applause, and everyone in the audience rose to their feet. When the crowd finally calmed down, the bishop smiled. “Thank you, thank you so very much.” He took a handkerchief out of his breast pocket and wiped the sweat from his forehead before continuing. “For almost seventeen years I’ve been the pastor of First Jamaica Ministries, and I’ve tried to lead by example. During that time, I’ve accomplished quite a bit. We’ve built senior homes, a school, Section Eight housing for the needy, a free health clinic for the children, and we even have a homeless shelter for those who need to come in out of the cold. And if I’m elected borough president, I think I can do more.”

  There was some applause, and an older woman yelled from the crowd, “We love you, Bishop!”

  “Well, thank you, Sister Adeline. I love you, too. However, I need more than your love. I need your help. I need all of your help. I need you to go over t
o that table and register to vote. Register so that when Election Day comes, I won’t be just a role model for First Jamaica Ministries, but a role model for the entire community. The entire borough of Queens.”

  The crowd exploded into another round of cheers. First a few voices started, then it seemed like every voice in the crowd was chanting, “Bishop…Bishop…Bishop!”

  Bishop Wilson stood there smiling proudly. For a moment he felt like the most powerful man in the world. It was a strange feeling for him, because he’d never aspired to be involved in politics. That had been his now-deceased father-in-law, Reverend Dr. Charles Jackson’s dream, not his. Reverend Jackson had been T.K.’s mentor and predecessor as pastor of First Jamaica Ministries, and had always dreamed of seeing his son-in-law hold office. T.K.’s only ambition had been to serve the Lord and be the best husband and father that he could be.

  T.K. glanced to the right side of the stage and smiled at his wife, Charlene, the only child of Reverend Jackson. She gave him a subtle thumbs-up, making T.K.’s smile widen. T.K. and Charlene had been married for over twenty years and had a good, blessed life as the pastor and first lady. She took her position as first lady very seriously, and in truth, she was just as responsible for T.K.’s rise to power in the church as he was. It was Charlene who went to her father’s deathbed and secured a letter to the deacons board asking them to forgo interviews with other ministers and name her husband the next pastor of the church. It was a decision that the deacons board reluctantly agreed to, only out of respect for their deceased pastor. Years later, though, they had not once regretted the decision.

  Charlene was also responsible for raising a sizable donation for the near-bankrupt Northeast Black Church Council, First Jamaica Ministries’ governing body. She then talked the council’s trustee board into bestowing T.K. with the title of bishop and naming him to their board. There was no doubt that Charlene was dedicated to her husband’s career and she held high hopes for his future.

  Charlene, like her father, wanted to see T.K. embark on a political career. She had pushed him for years to run for office. He finally gave in when his good friend Helen Marshall, who stepped down as borough president due to term limits, asked T.K. to run. Charlene, of course, was thrilled with Helen’s request, and some people even believed she had somehow orchestrated the whole turn of events.

  From his beautiful wife, the bishop glanced into the crowd at his lovely twenty-year-old daughter, Donna, who was surrounded by young men, many of whom were eager to court the bishop’s daughter. She was T.K.’s pride and joy, his little princess, as he still called her. He was proud of the job he and his wife had done with her, and it saddened him to think that she was now a woman attending college and he would soon be losing her to the young men of the world.

  He searched out his son, Dante, who was sitting behind a table helping people register to vote. Dante had just recently graduated from St. John’s University with a degree in business administration. He was working for the First Jamaica Ministries as director of church activities, although his mother had much higher aspirations for him. It was her belief that someday Dante would step into his father’s shoes as pastor of the church. This was also the bishop’s hope, although he was a little more realistic about the situation than his wife was. He knew that being a minister was a calling, and he wasn’t quite sure if his son had or would ever receive that calling. His wife, on the other hand, imagined that her son becoming pastor was a matter of birthright, and she would not hear of anything else.

  1

  Dante

  It was late afternoon when my best friend, Shorty Jefferson, and I rolled east down Jamaica Avenue in his metallic blue Jeep Cherokee. Shorty and I were rocking our heads to the music as we flirted with one pretty woman after another. We’d just finished handing out my father’s campaign flyers in front of Gertz Plaza Mall, and the radio was blasting G-Unit’s “Poppin’ Those Thangs.” The bass was so loud that not only could nearby pedestrians hear the music, they could feel it too. When Shorty stopped at a traffic light, I winked at a beautiful twenty-something-year-old woman who’d pulled up next to us in a red Honda Civic. She winked back with a smile. I gestured for her to roll down her window, then turned toward Shorty, my face now flush with color. One thing was for sure—she was as fine as they came.

  “Yo, check out baby over here in the Civic,” I yelled, reaching for the button to roll down the window. I turned back in her direction, smiling as if I were on a toothpaste commercial. I wasn’t a real believer in picking up women off the street with corny-ass lines, but this sister was worth taking a shot at. “What’s up, baby girl? Can a brotha get them digi—” I stopped myself abruptly and Shorty fell out laughing. I hadn’t seen quite what I was expecting. Oh, there was a woman there all right, but it wasn’t the fine sister I’d been flirting with just seconds before. She and her red Civic had made an illegal right on red and were halfway around the corner. In place of her car was a black Lincoln Continental. The driver was a mocha-colored, heavyset woman in her late fifties, wearing a very expensive but ugly bronze-colored wig. Both Shorty and I knew her quite well, and by the scowl on her face, it was clear she didn’t appreciate my comment, our music, or Shorty’s laughter in the background. Her name was Deaconess Lillian Wright, better known in whispers around my father’s church as The Bitch. She was one of my mother’s closest friends along with being one of my father’s biggest political supporters.

  “How you doing, Deaconess?” I raised my hand as I smiled meekly. She remained stone-faced, offering no reply. I rolled the window up and turned back toward Shorty, who’d stopped laughing and was back to rocking his head to the music.

  “Shorty, turn the radio down,” I told him through gritted teeth.

  “What?” Shorty shouted, obviously wondering why I was whispering.

  “I said turn the motherfuckin’ radio down!” I yelled this time. Then I reached for the volume knob, turning the radio down myself. I turned back toward Deaconess Wright, who was already punching the buttons on her cell phone. I knew that could only mean one thing—trouble—especially when I saw her flailing her other arm as she yelled into the phone. I wasn’t a lip reader, but her mouth looked like it was forming the word drunk several times. I sank into the seat, wishing I could take back the last few minutes of my life.

  The light turned green, but before Shorty could hit the accelerator, Deaconess Wright swerved out of the right turn lane and into his, speeding down Jamaica Avenue and turning on Merrick Boulevard.

  “Aw, shit.” I slammed my hand on the dashboard. “Man, I bet that bitch is headed straight to the church to see my momma.”

  “So what?” Shorty shrugged.

  “So what? Do you realize how much trouble I’m gonna get into?” I screwed up my face with disgust as I imagined the choice words my mother would have for me when I got to the church.

  “Trouble for what?” Shorty sighed, rolling his eyes at me. “How old are you, Dante?”

  “Man, you know how old I am,” I snapped with attitude. “Same age as you.”

  “Okay, so you’re old enough to drink in this state and buy cigarettes, right?” Shorty asked sarcastically.

  “Yeah, what’s the point, Shorty?”

  “The point is…” Shorty took his eyes off the road and glared at me. “Why the fuck are you so worried about some old church biddy with droopy titties calling your momma? You a grown man. What your moms gonna do, give you a beatin’?”

  I hesitated before I responded as if that was exactly what I was afraid of. “Look, Shorty, I been trying to explain this to you for years. Everything that my sister Donna and I do is a reflection of my parents, and a reflection of the church. My pops is Bishop T.K. Wilson, for crying out loud. He’s one of the most influential ministers in the city, possibly even the state. Jesus, he’s running for borough president.”

  “And? What’s that supposed to mean? You know I like the bishop, Dante, but he ain’t God. He’s just a man. He likes pussy just l
ike the rest of us heathens; otherwise you and your sister wouldn’t be here.”

  I couldn’t help it. I let out a frustrated laugh. Shorty had a way with words that was always colorful, if not true. Hell, I still heard my parents doing their thing every once in a while late at night.

  “You don’t understand how hard it is being the bishop’s son, Shorty. They all think I’m the heir apparent to the bishop.”

  “Yeah, and they’re right. Except maybe for Reverend Reynolds, you the only candidate.”

  “But I don’t wanna be—”

  Shorty cut me off. “Don’t even start that shit, Dante. Not unless you’re willing to tell your folks the truth.”

  “I can’t tell them the truth. Not yet, anyway. My momma wants me to be the pastor one day, and so does the bishop. I can’t let them down.”

  “Let them down! What about letting yourself down, Dante? You got a damn near perfect score on the LSATs and you don’t even have the guts to apply to law school because of your parents.” Shorty’s face looked pained at the thought of me passing up that opportunity. “Man, you need to stand up to your parents. Shit, man, you don’t even wanna be a minister. How you gonna be a pastor?”

  I shrugged but remained silent. We’d had this conversation a hundred times before, and the result was always the same. I ended up agreeing with Shorty, but I never actually had the nerve to admit to my parents my true aspirations.

  Shorty turned his attention back to the road, but not before he turned up the volume again. After a brief drive, he pulled his truck in front of the church and smiled as he stuck out his fist for me to tap. I smiled back as I tapped it then stepped out of the truck and stretched. At an even six feet three inches tall, I’m a well-built man with a basketball player’s body and smooth, handsome, almond-colored features. I’m not trying to brag or anything, but everyone says I look like my dad minus the beard, and women have been calling him good-looking for as long as I can remember. My friend Shorty, not a bad-looking guy himself, isn’t an inch over five six. He, too, is well built, but with a darker, mahogany complexion. His real name is John, but I can’t remember anyone other than a few teachers calling him anything but Shorty since we met. He and I have been friends since the sixth grade, and much to my mother’s chagrin, we’ve remained friends throughout the years.