The Pastor’s Wife 03

A week before Chanel’s wedding, I dreamt that her husband would be the death of her. In the dream, he chased her down a dark alley, eventually cornering her, leaving her with nowhere to go. When he put his hands on her, everything went black. I woke up.

Leah Whitcomb

I didn’t think it’d come true. It had been many years since I’d seen Chanel, and many more after that dream when I’d see her again. I saw the wedding announcement in the newspaper. Her joy was visible even from that still image.

My clairvoyance was new then, and I was untrustworthy; I didn’t want it to be true, but here Chanel laid, twenty-eight, dead in this white casket. The after-death bloat brought back a bit of vitality to her body. Her face was soft now instead of gaunt. As people filed into the church, my heart tightened watching her lay there. She was finally at peace, but we weren’t.

She was my cousin. Only a few months younger than me, we went to daycare, elementary, and high school together. At family reunions, we would run off together and gossip about school and boys. A decade ago, when we were teenagers on our way to college, we sat in her car after the morning service. Her golden face gleamed with possibility as she told me about her college plans. She was going to State with Brian, and after college, they’d get married and start a family. It was the blueprint for all girls our age so I wasn’t surprised when she asked me if I’d marry Darrell, my high school sweetheart, after college. I wasn’t sure, but I was excited to leave the state. She said she respected my decision as I searched for something more promising, something more ancient. I promised her that once I left, I’d never step foot in this church again.

I lied.

After the choir sang and the prayer was prayed, her husband eulogized her. He stood behind the pulpit but kept his head bowed. Thinking, searching for the right way to lie, “We’re gathered here today to celebrate the life of my beautiful wife, Chanel Leroy.” His hands on the top of the podium, he shifted trying to force or hold back tears, “You know, Proverbs 18:22 says, ‘Whoso findeth a wife findeth a good thing, and obtaineth favour of the Lord.’ I was a lucky man,” he nodded with red eyes. “Chanel was every good thing God could give me: loyal, honest, submissive. Her faith in me made me a better man.” He twisted his mouth.

I shifted in my seat and started fanning myself. I looked at the pew directly in front of Pastor Leroy. Where Chanel’s family and closest friends should have been, sat some congregants wearing their good brassieres. When the Pastor’s eyes would shift their way, they’d lift the scarfs from over their skirts. He’d bow his head again and blot the sweat from his forehead.

“I heard she got cancer,” a woman in the pew in front of me whispered behind her fan to the lady next to her.

“She probably got a hold of that stuff,” the lady whispered back to her.

“Mmmm, Lord have mercy,” the woman replied, fanning herself. “How long you think before the Pastor has a new wife?” she asked.

“You know him.” They stifled their giggles behind their fans. I sighed. My dear Chanel, was it worth it?

When Pastor Leroy finished his eulogy, her mother gave her remarks. A few girls from high school gave theirs. They cried that they hadn’t seen Chanel in so long, how much they missed her, and how she was gone too soon. I sat there. I had no words to describe how my own insecurities failed her. How if I had trusted myself, maybe she wouldn’t have been in this position. A tear fell from my eye. I paid it my respect by letting it linger instead of rushing to wipe it away.

The deacon stood next to the altar and said the closing scripture. “Can everyone turn their Bibles to Ecclesiastes chapter three?”

It was Chanel’s favorite verse. Pages flipped in the church before the deacon cleared his voice and spoke, “Ecclesiastes chapter three, verses one through eight

Title: Her Fidelity

Artist: Dionna Bright Plate 4 reads as follows: ‘To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance; A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing; A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away; A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak; A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.’ That is the word of God for the people of God.”

And the congregation said, “Amen.”

“Now, may we all stand and sing Amazing Grace before we lay Chanel in her final resting place,” Pastor Leroy commanded.

We stood. He started the song with his shaky baritone, rocking behind the pulpit until his eyes met mine. He gulped and averted his gaze, but mine never left his face.