Black Church Blues

Some books have the power to change the world; The Bible did it. The Communist Manifesto did it. Uncle Tom's Cabin did it. But can Black Church Blues do it too?

Black Church Blues is a spiritually insightful, knots-in-the-stomach hilarious novel about the misadventures Kizzy Marie Sheppard Myles, a cantankerous old retired schoolteacher/scientist, fondly known to her dysfunctional fellow parishioners as Mama Kizzy. Her mission is to save her congregation from the power-hungry, conspiratorial deacon board. In the process, however, she unravels the precarious relationship between man-made science and God-made religion.

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Chapter 4: Black Church Blues By Leander Jackie Grogan

   At 6:50 pm that following Wednesday night, about fifty friends and family members had assembled inside the church sanctuary. They had come to pay their last respects to Buster Williams, whose big silver Peterbilt 18-wheeler had plunged over a bridge and into a deep ravine just outside of Oklahoma City. Although details were still sketchy, the people from the Highway Patrol suspected he had fallen asleep behind the wheel.  Whatever the cause, Buster had left his mangled body behind, releasing his spirit to be with the Lord.

Unfortunately, Buster had left something else behind as well... debt; lots of it. Although he had made good money as a truck driver, he had made bad choices as an investor.  He had fallen victim to countless land deals, franchise startups and get-rich-quick pyramid schemes.  The $30,000 he squandered at the Las Vegas black jack tables in ‘82 had finally sent his wife, Mary Bell, and kids packing. Their departure only spurred him on, prompting more fool-hearted investments with the same disastrous results. By the time he died in March of ‘93, he had no money set aside for his own funeral.

Because of Cora Williams’ years of dedication to First Reunion, I felt the church should pay for her brother’s funeral. But Poe and the other deacons refused. After several phone calls, ruffling the feathers of everyone on the finance committee, they finally revealed that Buster had borrowed $12,000 from the church and never paid it back.  As far as they were concerned, the unpaid loan was his funeral money. That was as far as they were willing to go.

I gave my friend, Cora, a check for $1000. Some of the other members pitched in too. I had planned to give more, until I found out who was handling the funeral arrangements. If they were going to use old man Reedy, then they were on their own.

Reedy & Sons Mortuary was the sleaziest funeral parlor in town.  Located in the heart of the notorious Fifth Ward, just north of downtown, Clarence Reedy had built his 30-year-old business by providing cheap funerals for the poor, ignorant and unclaimed. Poor people were desperate and needed a good price.  Ignorant people never bothered to read the fine print in the contract which allowed him to bury bodies on top of other bodies. Unclaimed people, such as murdered dope dealers, posed a problem for the City of Houston’s international, oil-rich image and were expediently buried using City funds. Reedy always gave a hefty contribution to the local politicians. Thus, Reedy & Sons was the City’s undertaker of choice.

Though Clarence Reedy had gotten too old to manage the daily operations, his jailbird son had stepped in to keep the business afloat.  Lurking beneath his polished, white smile, and pink tinted lenses, was a new generation of cunning. Rumor had it young Joe Reedy’s latest endeavor involved selling watered down embalming fluid over some kind of wire hookup called the World Wide Web. He held back the pure stuff to sell to neighborhood amp-heads who smoked it along with their marijuana treats.