The Preacher's Son

Book 1: Church Series

by Carl Weber

Genres: African American; African American Women's Fiction; African American Romance

Synopsis

Bishop T.K. Wilson is a pillar of the community, pastor of the largest African-American church in Queens, NY, and has always tended to the needy. Running for borough president, he faces one shocking revelation after another that could not only derail his campaign, but also force him to reevaluate his family values.

Release date: December 1, 2006

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

“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 to 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.

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 like 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.

“Yo, I’ll check you later. Why don’t we shoot by Scandalous, that new place in Long Island City, tonight?”

“Please. You know I can’t be seen in a place like that,” I replied. Even if I didn’t have to worry about my public image as the preacher’s son, I wasn’t in the mood to go to a strip club anyway. I didn’t mind hanging out with Shorty, but lately I’d been looking for a woman to settle down with, and a strip club isn’t exactly the kind of place you’re gonna find a woman to take home to your momma. “Yo, Shorty, why don’t you come on in?”

Shorty never replied because a tall, voluptuous, olive-skinned woman exited the side door of the church, distracting him. She was wearing a short, black miniskirt and a tight-fitting red blouse. She was a big-boned woman with shapely thighs and a huge butt. She was what we brothers like to refer to as thick. Her name was Donna, my younger sister. Shorty had been infatuated with her for as long as I could remember. When we were younger, the two of them were actually pretty close. When Shorty couldn’t find a date to the prom, he asked Donna and she went. You should have seen their prom picture. The two of them looked like Laurel and Hardy, my sister being a good four inches taller than him, even without her heels. Still, Shorty never seemed happier than he was that night at the prom with Donna.

“Hey, Donna.” Shorty waved his hand eagerly. Donna waved back politely then walked up to me and kissed my cheek.

“Hey, sis, what’s up?”

“My car’s in the shop. Can I borrow yours, pleeeease?” She gave me this sad, pleading look then turned toward the church, watching the side door nervously. She must have been afraid my mother was gonna pop out those doors and make her change her clothes. What she was wearing was pretty provocative, and I was surprised she got out the house, let alone the church, without our mother’s scrutiny. That’s when the thought hit me that she had probably just changed in my office, which she had done before, and had been waiting by the window for my return so she could borrow my car and get out of Dodge.

“Where you going dressed like that?” I asked with brotherly concern.

“I’m going to see my friend. We’re going to dinner at the Soul Café on Forty-second Street.” She smiled. “Why? Is there a problem?” She gave me that don’t-even-go-thereafter-everything-I’ve-done-for-you look. Donna had done everything from helping me sneak girls into our house to pretending my girlfriends were her friends so they could sneak into my room after our parents were asleep. The last thing I wanted to do now was be a hypocrite.

“Nah, no problem.” I sighed, trying to hold back my true feelings. “I just don’t want you to get hurt, Donna. I hope you’re taking the proper precautions.”

“Don’t worry about that, because I took them right out your dresser drawer.” Donna blushed while I didn’t even crack a smile. I hated the thought that my sister might be having sex, but she was twenty years old and there really wasn’t anything I could do about it. “So can I borrow your truck, Dante? Please! I gotta get out of here before Mommy comes out.”

I stared at my sister, then handed her the keys to the new Lincoln Aviator truck my parents had given me as a graduation present. “Don’t you get in no accident with my car.” I loved my sister, but she was a horrible driver; that was why her car was in the shop now.

“I won’t. I promise.” Donna smiled, wrapping her arms around me and kissing me on the cheek. “Oh, Dante, can you tell Mommy that I’m studying at Susan’s?”

I hesitated, then thought about how many times she’d lied for me. “Yeah, sure. No problem.”

“Thanks.” She kissed me again then waved. “Bye, Shorty.”

“Bye, Donna.” Shorty and I watched her walk toward my car, then he turned to me with an unhappy look on his face. “She’s got a boyfriend, doesn’t she?”

“Yep.”

“When did this all happen?” Shorty, like myself, had never known Donna to date. Matter of fact, after the prom, he pursued Donna for over a year. For a while I thought they might even hook up for real, but for the past few years Donna had been treating him like he barely existed. Even though it hurt Shorty, as far as I was concerned, it was a good thing. Best friends and sisters shouldn’t be mixed.

I shrugged my shoulders. “I guess she’s been seeing him for a couple of months.”

“What? Why didn’t you tell me?” There was obvious jealousy in his voice. That was exactly why I hadn’t told him.

I stared at my lovesick friend. “ ’Cause it’s none of your business. You don’t go around telling me who your sister is dating.”

Shorty rolled his eyes. “So who is this guy, anyway?”

“I don’t know, but whoever he is, he’s got her nose wide open. She’s used up about half the condoms in my drawer.”

I could see the disappointment in Shorty’s face and I felt sorry for him. He really liked my sister. I guess I just never knew how much until now, so I decided to try to take his mind off it.

“Hey, man, forget about my sister. Why don’t you come on inside? The women’s choir rehearsal’s about to get out and you know they gonna have some food and some good-looking honeys down there.”

Shorty glanced over at Deaconess Wright’s Lincoln Continental and my mother’s champagne-colored Mercedes-Benz parked in the church’s parking lot. I could tell my offer was tempting. We hadn’t eaten all day, and a lot of those church girls were hot in the ass. Still, the look in his eyes said he really wasn’t up for any drama. With my mom and Deaconess Wright around, there was sure to be some. If things went the way they usually did, Shorty would be the one who ended up getting blamed for it, too.

“I think I’ll pass, bro.” He pointed at the two cars in the church’s reserved parking spaces. I guess he figured if he was going to deal with that, there was going to have to be a good reason, and that reason had just pulled away in my truck to see another guy. “It looks like you about to have some drama with your momma. Ain’t no need for me to stick around. I’ll just make things worse for you.”

“Chicken. What, are you scared of my mother?” I teased.

“Pretty much.” He nodded.

“I thought you said I should stand up to her.”

“I said you should stand up to her. You’re her son. Me, I’m just the guy from around the block. Only time your moms wants to see me is on Sunday morning and that’s only if I’m putting something in the collection plate.”

I chuckled. “You know she loves you, Shorty.”

“Yeah, like a snake loves a rat. Did you forget what she did last Saturday?” I figured that was best left unsaid, so I remained quiet. I hoped Shorty would do the same, but he continued. “Your moms got on the mike at the church bazaar and told everyone who’d listen to hold on to their daughters ’cause Satan just walked in. Them people started staring at me like I had horns and shit. Now, I’ve been called a lot of things, Dante, but to have the first lady of the church you belong to call you the Devil has got to be the worst.”

I lowered my head, laughing at my mother’s antics. Despite her actions, I really don’t think my mother disliked Shorty. She just loved the hell outta me and didn’t want to admit that I’m human and can make mistakes. It was easier for her to make Shorty the scapegoat for my missteps. “She didn’t mean anything by it, Shorty.”

Shorty rolled his eyes. “Dante, face it, man. Your mom doesn’t like me. She never has, and she probably never will. She thinks I’m a bad influence on you.”

“Yeah, little does she know I’m probably a worse one on you.” We both laughed as I said goodbye and headed for the side entrance to the church.

I entered the Soul Café on Forty-second Street and headed straight for the bar, relieved that no one had stopped me to check my ID. I searched for an empty table. I was early for my date with Terrance and I wanted to have a drink to calm my nerves before he arrived. Just the thought of being alone with him had me so excited that my hands were shaking. I’d been dating Terrance for a little over four months now and he continued to have the same overwhelming effect on me as he had the first day we met. He was unlike any other man that I’d ever dated, and there was no doubt in my mind that I was in love with him.

I spotted an empty booth on the other side of the bar where I was sure Terrance would see me. I immediately headed toward it. I could feel the eyes of almost every man in the place on me as I walked across the room. A few of them tried to stop me for idle chitchat, but I ignored them and kept right on going. There wasn’t anything in that room that interested me other than a drink, but those fools were persistent as hell. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea for me to wear such a micro-miniskirt, but Terrance had mentioned on more than one occasion that he liked seeing me in skirts because of my shapely legs. Truth is, I think he liked the easy access to what was under my skirt a little more, but either way, I was hoping that when he came in, he’d be pleased. I never imagined I’d end up being eye candy for every horny guy in Manhattan, though. Oh well, I guess that’s just the price you pay when you’re trying to please the man you love.

I’d known I wanted Terrance the second he showed up at the church two years before. He was everything I’d ever hoped for in a man. He was handsome, caring, intelligent, funny, and as I would find out later, a phenomenal lover. Everything a girl would want to take home to her momma—that is, if her momma weren’t a bitch like mine. From the moment I had showed an interest in boys, my mother made it clear that no one was good enough for her daughter. That was ironic, though, because it also seemed like no matter how hard I tried to please her, nothing I did was ever good enough for her. Any time I was less than perfect, she would remind me what a disappointment I was. My mother was a hard woman to please, which was why I didn’t make my interest in Te. . .