Pamela Samuels-Young
Books
Chapter 2
V
ernetta Henderson could not remember the last time she’d seen Mt. Moriah Baptist Church crammed with so many people. Crowds this big only showed up on Easter Sunday or right after some natural disaster. Like a 7.0 earthquake or a hurricane like the one that nearly wiped New Orleans off the map.
A lone tear inched its way down Vernetta’s right cheek, but she didn’t bother to wipe it away. Another one would replace it soon enough. She peered over her shoulder for the umpteenth time, praying that she’d spot her best friend, Special Moore, somewhere among the mourners. Instead, she saw Jefferson, her husband, slip in and take a seat on the back pew.
Where in the hell was Special? She was taking her cousin’s death pretty hard, but Vernetta couldn’t believe Special would actually miss the entire funeral.
In the pulpit just a few feet away, the testimonials were going into overkill now. Another twenty or so people were lined up along the church’s east wall, waiting for their chance to speak. A petite white woman with curly red hair had already been at the microphone way too long.
“. . . and when we first joined the D.A.’s office,” the woman sniffed in a mousy voice that matched her appearance, “Maya and I would work late into the night. And whenever I needed help with one of my cases, she would always stay to help me out.” The woman paused to blow her nose, blaring right into the microphone. “I couldn’t believe it when I found out she had pneumonia.”
Pneumonia. Yeah, right.
Vernetta closed her eyes and tried to shut out the anguish that felt like it was oozing from her pores. Maya Lavelle Washington was not supposed to be dead. Not at thirty-two. The comforting presence of the friend sitting to Vernetta’s left made it a little easier to cope with the pain. Nichelle Ayers held Vernetta’s hand in a grip so tight it nearly cut off her blood supply. Every two seconds she blubbered something incoherent and dabbed at her cheeks with a wadded up Kleenex.
The woman at the microphone stopped to honk her nose again, and the willowy Reverend Jones seized the opportunity, making it over to her in two long strides. He gave her shoulder a sympathetic squeeze, then waved up the next person in line.
Just over two years ago, they had all celebrated Maya’s thirtieth birthday with a blowout party at The Savoy in Inglewood. Maya had danced so hard her press ’n curl had poofed into a kinky afro by the time the last guest departed. Afterwards, the four of them—Maya, Special, Nichelle, and Vernetta—buzzed from way too many strawberry margaritas, headed over to the Denny’s on Jefferson, where they drank coffee and hot chocolate and laughed until daylight. That had been the last really good time they had all shared together. Three weeks later, Maya found out about her illness.
Nichelle’s cries had turned into hiccupping sobs now, which was only to be expected. Nichelle was so emotional Vernetta often wondered how the girl was able to function as a lawyer. She had barely lasted two years at the City Attorney’s Office in West L.A. before throwing in the towel. Nichelle was a more-than-competent prosecutor. She just had a bad habit of letting her heart cloud her legal judgment. Every defendant Nichelle was assigned to prosecute, she wanted to set free. Her current law practice was limited to preparing living trusts and helping people through the probate process. Now she could feel sorry for her clients and get paid for it.
J.C. Sparks, the woman on Vernetta’s opposite side, shifted in her seat. J.C. was a colleague of Maya’s who had been just as much of a fixture at Maya’s bedside as they all had been during the final weeks of her life. Vernetta could see that J.C. was struggling to maintain her composure. In her line of work—she was a detective with the infamous LAPD—J.C. saw death on a regular basis. Tears weren’t in her job description.
A portly Hispanic man stood before the microphone now, praising Maya’s pro bono work for a homeless shelter in Watts. Vernetta listened without hearing, her thoughts now focused on the mountain of work that awaited her back at the offices of O’Reilly & Finney, one of L.A.’s top law firms. Lately, her professional life had been nothing but drama, drama, drama, and she was not looking forward to more of it come Monday morning.
A commotion emanating from the back of the church wrenched Vernetta’s attention away from her work woes. When she turned around, she saw Special stalking down the center aisle, her arms swinging wildly with each step. Special was tall and curvaceous, with a fun, outrageous personality to match. But today, she looked haggard and borderline anorexic. Her eyes were swollen and red from crying and her long thick hair was mussed together in a scraggly bun.
To everyone’s amazement, including Vernetta’s, Special sidestepped two ushers, shrugged off a funeral director and charged straight into the pulpit. The mourner who was speaking stumbled aside as Special snatched the microphone from its stand.
“Everybody thinks Maya died from pneumonia,” Special said, choking back a sob. “Well, she didn’t.”
Vernetta shot out of her seat and was at Special’s side in a flash. “What’re you doing?” she whispered, covering the mike with her hand. “Don’t do this!”
J.C. followed after her, and the two of them formed a tight half circle around their distraught friend. Reverend Jones took a half step toward them, but froze when J.C. shot him a cop glare that didn’t require any verbal instructions.
“People need to know the truth,” Special replied in a weak but angry voice.
Nichelle had also joined them, which was a surprise considering how much she hated confrontation. She stood off to the side, still dabbing her eyes with the tattered Kleenex.
Vernetta placed a hand on Special’s shoulder. “Maya’s family doesn’t want people to know.”
“I’m her family, too,” Special replied stubbornly. “And I think they should know.”
A muffled clamor drew all eyes to the front pew. Maya’s mother slowly rose to her feet. Pearl Washington was a young woman. Just over fifty. But the weight of her daughter’s death had added a good ten years to her otherwise flawless face.
“Special’s right . . . ” Mrs. Washington said in a weathered voice that had Maya’s feminine raspiness. “People should know. Let her speak.”
After a long, uncertain moment, J.C. took a step back. It took another few seconds before Vernetta reluctantly did the same.
As the congregation waited, Special dropped her head as if she had suddenly lost her nerve and was searching for it on the floor. But in an instant, she straightened into a lofty, almost regal pose.
“Maya wasn’t just my cousin,” Special began, fighting to control her emotions. “She was like a sister to me. And she shouldn’t be lying in that casket. The only reason she is, is because somebody deceived her. And it would be a crime to deceive all of you.”
She stopped and rubbed her right eye with the heel of her hand. “Maya didn’t die of pneumonia. Maya died of AIDS. And Eugene Nelson was the man who infected her.”
An elderly woman gasped from the back row, and a teenager sitting up front cupped his mouth with both hands.
“Maya didn’t know that Eugene was gay or on the down low or whatever you want to call it,” Special continued, ignoring the waves of shock ricocheting through the church. “ Eugene needs to pay for what he did. And I promise you . . .” Her lower lip began to quiver and for a second it seemed as if she would not be able to go on. “I plan to make sure that he does.”
Special let out a loud, agonizing wail as her three friends rushed over to her. Reverend Jones waved frantically at the pianist, whose fingers hit the wrong keys, then broke into Amazing Grace.
Vernetta wasn’t sure what emotion she felt as they escorted Special from the pulpit. But she didn’t blame her friend for what she had just done. It didn’t make sense for Eugene to be walking around looking like the picture of health when Maya was dead. What was God’s lesson in that? Special was absolutely right. Eugene had to pay.
As a matter of fact, they had already come up with a plan to make sure that he did.
