As the automatic door of the ER at St. Francis Hospital slid open, Avis had to practically run to keep up with Peter as he strode up to the desk. “The man they just brought in—Hubert Clark. He collapsed in the middle of church. One of our pastors at SouledOut Community Church. Is he . . . how is he?”
The woman behind the glass window barely looked up from her computer. “And you are . . . ?”
“Peter Douglass. One of the church elders. How is—”
“Sir, you’ll need to wait. Just take a seat in the waiting room. I’m sure someone will come out to talk to you directly. Does he have family that should be notified?”
Peter looked at Avis. She shook her head. Pastor Clark didn’t have any immediate family. No wife or children. Sisters or brothers? She didn’t know.
Peter left their names at the desk and slumped in a chair in the waiting room. But he stood up as the Meeks, Baxters, and David Brown came in. Good, all the elders are here, Avis thought. “We called Pastor Cobbs from the car,” she said. “I think he’s on the way.”
Jodi glanced at Avis. “I thought he was sick,” she whispered. Avis grimaced.
“Have they told you anything?” David Brown asked.
Peter shook his head.
David was in his forties, maybe five-ten, light brown hair thinning on top, his face pockmarked from a severe case of teenage acne. He and Mary had three children, two boys in middle school and a girl in fifth grade, if Avis remembered correctly, though the girl didn’t attend Bethune Elementary.
The men huddled together, talking quietly. Debra Meeks took a seat, shaking her head. Jodi Baxter slipped an arm around Avis. “Are you all right?”
Avis gave an absentminded nod. She was watching the huddle of men. Denny and David were white. Peter and Debra were black. She’d never thought anything about the racial makeup of the elders. Denny Baxter was just . . . Denny. A great guy. A great friend. She didn’t know the Browns that well, even though they’d been at Uptown with Pastor Clark before the merge, same as she had. Did David have the same reservations about their racially diverse church as his wife, Mary? She’d have to ask Peter if he’d picked up anything on the elder board.
The automatic door slid open, and Pastor Joe Cobbs and his wife, Rose, came into the ER and headed their way. Beads of sweat dotted the forehead of the short, stocky copastor. Rose shook her head as they joined the group. “Joe shouldn’t be here. But he wouldn’t listen to me.” She looked from face to face. “How is Pastor Clark?”
Peter shook his head. “No word yet.”
They talked in quiet voices or just sat. Avis walked back and forth, praying silently. The words of Psalm 56 kept running through her prayer thoughts: “When I am afraid, I will trust in God . . . I trust in God, why should I be afraid?”
They’d been at the hospital thirty minutes when a man in a white coat came through the double doors that led to the “inner sanctum” and paused at the reception desk. The woman behind the window nodded in their direction. Almost as one they stood and faced the man.
“You’re friends of Mr. Clark?” the doctor asked. His face was a neutral mask Avis couldn’t read.
Pastor Cobbs spoke. “I’m Pastor Joe Cobbs. Pastor Clark is my copastor at SouledOut Community Church. He collapsed during the morning service. These are church leaders and friends.”
The doctor shook his head. “I’m sorry. Mr. Clark didn’t make it. Both the paramedics and the doctors here kept working on him, but . . . the paramedics estimated his heart fully stopped even before they arrived at the church.”
Debra Meeks gasped. “Lord, have mercy!”
Peter groaned and reached for Avis. They stood a long moment holding on to one another. Avis, her face pressed against Peter’s chest, felt numb. All she could think was, What now, Lord, what now?
Denny Baxter, who’d known Pastor Clark longer than any of them, and Joe and Rose Cobbs stayed at the hospital to make arrangements for Hubert’s body to be taken to a funeral home. The rest of them reluctantly went home with the assignment to pass the word along to the rest of the church.
Peter and Avis were silent on the drive back to Rogers Park. Once they’d climbed the stairs to their third-floor apartment, Peter sank into his recliner, shaking his head. “I can’t believe he’s gone. Just like that.”
Avis sat on the arm of the recliner, facing him, stroking his close-cropped hair. “You’ve been worried about him for a while. We knew he wasn’t well.”
“Yeah. I know. But . . . still wasn’t prepared for him to go so suddenly.”
They sat together quietly for several long minutes. Suddenly Peter looked at her quizzically. “What happened to you this morning—before worship, I mean? I get that Pastor Clark asked you to fill in as worship leader at the last minute. He said as much. But where were you when service was supposed to start?”
The sour taste in her mouth returned. She was so tempted to blurt out the whole conversation she’d overheard in the ladies’ restroom. By an elder’s wife, at that! But she felt a check in her spirit. This wasn’t the time. Pastor Clark had just died of a heart attack. Her offended sensibilities felt . . . almost petty in comparison.
“I’ll explain later,” she murmured, bending forward to kiss her husband on the forehead. “Right now I think we need to make some calls. What letters of the alphabet did we say we’d take?”
They were halfway through the Ks, using both the kitchen phone and Peter’s cell, when Avis heard a knock at the front door. “Someone’s at the door, Terri. We don’t know any details about funeral arrangements yet, but we’ll call when we do.” The knocks came again. “I’m sorry. I need to go. Bye.”
Avis sighed. It had to be one of their new “neighbors” at the door. She opened it.
Nick Taylor stood on the landing, hands shoved in the front pockets of his jeans. “We, uh, heard you were home. Just footsteps,” he hastily added. “No problem. But . . . we wanted to know if you have any word about Pastor Clark. Especially Kat.
She’s pretty upset.”
Avis’s heart melted a little. The four students were too new to be in the church phone directory. But she should have realized they’d want to know. Especially the girl, after jumping in and giving the pastor CPR.
This wasn’t news for standing on the landing. “Come in, Nick.” She opened the door wider and led the young man into the living room. She sat down on the couch and motioned for him to join her. “I’m sorry, Nick. We should have told you and your friends right away. Pastor Clark . . .” She shook her head. “He didn’t make it. He’s home with Jesus now.”
Nick’s shoulders sagged. He shook his head slowly. “I . . . I can’t believe it. We thought surely the CPR would keep him alive until the paramedics showed up. You’re sure? He’s dead?” Then he looked sheepish. “Of course you’re sure. You don’t say things like that unless you’re sure.”
Avis just watched his face. The young man seemed truly distressed.
He sat on the couch for several minutes, his elbows leaning on his knees. Then he looked up at Avis. “Would you mind coming downstairs and telling the girls? I think Kat’s going to take this pretty hard. It’s the first time she’s done CPR in a real situation. That it didn’t save him . . .” Nick shook his head. “Maybe you could help her.”
“The first time?” Avis was startled. The girl had leaped into the situation as if she’d given CPR a dozen times. Bossy. Confident. No one had stopped her. No one had asked if she knew what she was doing. Probably because most of them didn’t know CPR themselves and were glad someone—even someone as young as Kathryn Davies—looked as if she knew what she was doing.
Unwelcome thoughts crowded into her mind. Had the girl known what she was doing? If she had, would Pastor Clark still be alive?
No, no. She couldn’t let her mind go there. But she wasn’t sure she could reassure the girl either.
“I’m sorry, Nick. I’m afraid you’ll have to bear the news. We have a lot of calls to make to let people in the church know that Pastor Clark died. But if we hear any more information, we’ll be sure to let you know downstairs.” She stood up. “Do we have your phone numbers? Here’s ours . . .”
Avis grabbed the church phone directory she’d been using and wrote down their names and numbers as Nick read them from his cell phone. Then she gave him their number, hoping it wasn’t a mistake to do so. She didn’t want a lot of calls from them about every little thing.
Nick seemed reluctant to leave but finally went back downstairs. Avis immediately called the Hickmans, the next number on the list.
The phone was picked up on the first ring. “That you, Avis? What’s the word, girl? Me an’ Carl ’bout ready to go crazy over here.”
“Oh, Florida. Pastor Clark didn’t make it. It was a major heart attack. He’s gone.”
Avis heard the gasp in her ear. Then, “Carl! Carl! Get on the phone!” A second phone picked up, and Avis repeated her sad news.
Carl’s voice was gruff. “All right. Was afraid of that when I heard what happened. Uh, Ms. Avis, tell your man to call me. I know he wants to know when I’m comin’ back to work, but might be another week or so.”
Florida waited until the second phone went dead. “Why bad things happen all at the same time, Avis? First Carl gets hurt at work, now this.”
Avis winced. Good question. And her list was even longer. Rochelle still missing—at least not communicating. Bethune Elementary possibly getting shut down. Her own job on the line if that happened. Peter’s business hitting bumps in the road. The buyout he’d hoped for now in question.
“I don’t know, Flo. Just got to keep trusting, I guess. Uh, about the holiday. I don’t think we’ll come over to barbecue. We might need to help plan for the funeral.”
“Oh, yeah, yeah. I understand. Don’t feel much like doin’ anything myself. But call me when you get any more news, hear?”
Avis worked her way through the other names on her list, hearing Peter doing the same thing in the study. They needed a better system to get word around, even though Jodi Baxter and Debra Meeks were making calls too.
Avis finally put the phone back in its cradle and wearily massaged the back of her neck. She had to get out of her church clothes. Soak in the tub. Do something to release the tension in her shoulders and back.
But the phone rang before she was even halfway to the bedroom. Caller ID said Rose Cobbs.
“Avis? Sister Rose here. Pastor would call you, but once we got home I made him go back to bed. He’s running a temp of 102.”
Avis murmured something sympathetic as she walked to the bedroom with the phone, slipping off her shoes and wiggling one-handedly out of her dress.
“Funeral is set for next Saturday at ten in the morning. So we need to get word around to the church . . .”
Avis wanted to groan. Making all those calls again?
“But the main thing Pastor wanted to call about is . . . could you and Peter meet with him at the church tomorrow? Maybe one o’clock? He’s presuming you have the day off since it’s a holiday. Humph. He’s also presuming he’ll be the picture of health tomorrow,” she added. Avis noted the tinge of irritation. Men. Even pastors.
“Uh, meet? Do you know what about? If it’s planning for the funeral, we could use more—”
“Not the funeral. He wants to talk to you and Peter about stepping up to the plate in the wake of Pastor Clark’s death. He needs you, Avis. You and Peter both. He wants to avoid a leadership crisis.”