Blue Star Rapture (11 page)

The autopsy report revealed that LuAnn was pregnant, but there was no evidence of drugs in her system. The coroner's jury, which took three weeks to render a finding, determined that her death was a “simple suicide.” No foul play was suspected.

Two other articles were interviews, one that quoted her family and schoolmates, and another that revealed the sorrow of her camp chums and counselor, Sister Simone, at Camp Shaddai. Sister Simone was quoted as saying. “Ruth Ann was a troubled but Spirit-led girl whose faith in the Lord was unconditional.”

T.J. bought a Bible at a used-book store. He couldn't forget that last night in the wilderness when he'd had that final conversation with her, the one in which she disclosed to him her dream about the horse on the footbridge. He used a fresh page of the diary to write down some scripture:
When he opened the fourth seal, I heard the voice of the fourth living creature say, “Come!” And I saw, and behold, a pale horse, and its rider's name was Death, and Hades followed after him; and they were given power over a fourth of the earth, to kill with sword and with famine and with pestilence and by wild beasts of the earth
. T.J. wrote down Revelation, chapter and verse, but he had no idea what use, if any, he could ever make of this passage.

The 700 Club
was on. From the corner of his eye he watched it on the small black-and-white TV located on an empty bookshelf. Sometimes he watched this program in the evenings, in spite of himself. There was something to learn, something perched only on the apron of his consciousness, but he felt it had something to do with the Rapture.

Once, while watching the program, he heard the Reverend Jerry Falwell say in an interview, “I expect never to die. His second coming is so imminent, I expect to join the Lord in the air. If you ever read an obituary of Jerry Falwell, rest assured that your surprise will be no greater than mine.”

When he heard that declaration, T.J. couldn't help but think of the sermon he'd heard Sister Simone preaching that night in LuAnn's tabernacle. The language was so similar to these words out of the mouth of Jerry Falwell.

One day near the end of August, T.J. wrote in his diary that he was tired of manipulating. He didn't need to do that anymore. It wasn't necessary to spend your whole life guarded and wary and searching for methods of control.
A person can change
, he wrote in bold letters.

But he also wondered, change to what? A basketball star? Just because of that one shining moment at Full Court camp when he shut down Ronnie Streets? That was a moment driven more by guilty desperation than by any actual goal. In and of itself, how could it be the basis for any meaningful change?

He wrote in the center of a page,
I am a person in transition
. He might have written more, to attempt a framework for this change of life, but the phone rang. He had to go downstairs to the kitchen to answer it.

It was Gaines, the sportswriter. “You never called me about Full Court,” he said.

“I never promised you I would.”

“So how'd it go? Anything to report?”

“It would be old news now, wouldn't it?” said T.J. In his mind's eye he saw LuAnn and the footbridge, but he knew it wasn't the kind of material that the sportswriter sought. “Ishmael Greene is going to Notre Dame,” he said.

“Everybody knows that,” Gaines pointed out.

“Like I said, nothing to report.”

As soon as he hung up, he saw the papers on the table, which were forms for school registration. There was also a note from his mother that said,
I
signed these forms but I don't have time to fill them out. That's your job. Your work shirt is pressed in the second drawer. There's leftover casserole in the oven you can warm up
.

T.J. turned on the small TV that sat on the counter next to the stove. The news at noon from Channel 25 in Peoria was coming on as he fixed himself a grilled cheese sandwich. He looked at the registration forms briefly, but then Tyron was at the door. He joined T.J. at the kitchen table. He wanted to know if Coach Lindsey had called.

“If he calls,” said T.J., “He'll be calling
you.
”

“Hows come?”

“Because I wrote him a note. I told him to take everything straight to you. Either you or Coach DeFreese.”

“Hows come?”

“Because it's the right way. None of this shit needs to go through me anymore.”

There was a large economy-size box of Famous Amos Oatmeal Cremes perched next to the newspaper. Tyron reached in to pull out five or six of the cookies. “But I want you to help me,” he said.

“I didn't say I won't help you. If you want my advice, I'll give you advice. But nothing goes through me anymore, okay?”

“Jesus,” muttered Tyron. His mouth was full. He was working his pick to fluff his 'fro, but it was with a searching look on his face, as if a thoughtful coiffing might help him absorb this change in strategy. Then he said, “You want to go to the arcade?”

“Not today. I have to work.”

“I wish you didn't take that job, T.J. After work you wanta shoot?”

“Can we get in the gym?”

“We can get in. It's open gym tonight.” Tyron spoke with his mouth full; he was working on his second handful of the oatmeal cremes.

“You know, Tyron, if you get in a college program they're gonna want you in shape.”

“I know. Lotsa time in the weight room. Lotsa lifting. I can handle that.”

“Can you handle lots of lettuce and vegetables and fruit salad?”

“What d'you mean?”

“I mean coaches aren't going to want you eating cookies and Moon Pies and Whoppers with fries. They're going to want you in shape, maybe twenty pounds lighter.”

“For real?”

“For real.”

“That really sucks, T.J. In fact, that's double-suck.”

“Maybe, but you need to know what you're gettin' yourself into.”

Their conversation was interrupted when the sports came on. The lead story was Ishmael Greene's announcement that he would attend Notre Dame after graduation. On the screen were Ishmael, his parents, and his high school coach at a press conference. For style points, Ishmael was wearing a Notre Dame hat.

When the reporter switched to the list of baseball scores, Tyron said, “Jesus, T.J. I can't believe he did it right in front of TV and everything.”

“That would be Ishmael.”

“I want to do that. Can I do that?”

“Do what? You're not thinkin' about Notre Dame again?”

“No, I wanna go on TV like that. I wanna go on TV and announce for North State.”

“You can't do that now.”

“Why?”

“Because they haven't even offered you a scholarship yet. A person can't announce where they're going until they get a scholarship offer.”

“Maybe when I get the scholarship offer, then I can.”

T.J. shrugged, then rubbed his eyes.
This has to be karma
, he couldn't help thinking. “Look, Tyron. Goin' on TV like Ishmael's doin' is just for show, you know what I mean?”

“No.” As if for spite, he shoved two more cookies into his mouth.

“Ishmael's a
Parade
all-American. He's even a
USA Today
all-American. He loves the spotlight. But comin' on TV and sayin' that he's going to Notre Dame doesn't mean anything. Nothing's official until you sign your letter of intent, and you're not allowed to do that until November. You see what I mean? It's all for show.”

“Then why's he doin' it if it doesn't mean nothin'?”

“Like I told you, because he loves the spotlight. That, and the fact that other recruiters will probably leave him alone now.”

“I like it when recruiters call.”

“I know you do.”

The fatigue generated by this conversation was evident in Tyron's slumping body language. He said, “Okay, so what about the open gym? You wanta shoot?”

“What time is it open?” T.J. asked him.

“Six to ten.”

“I don't get off till seven. I'll be there at seven-thirty.”

“I wish you didn't take that job at Hardee's, T.J.”

ELEVEN

The first full day of school was on a Friday. To get through senior English with Mrs. Rubin, you had to start with
Hamlet
. Mrs. Rubin was a no-nonsense, old-line teacher without a surplus of patience.

To get to the back issues of area newspapers, which T.J. sought to do after school, you had to go through Rita Esposito, who was much younger than Mrs. Rubin in years, but not in behavior. Rita was the editor of the school newspaper, the
Herald
, as well as senior library aide for Mr. Hunter, the school librarian.

T.J. started by telling Rita he needed to search through some back issues of newspapers. “I'll be real careful not to mess them up,” he promised.

“No can do, T.J. You have to write down the issues you want to see, and if we have them we'll bring them out to you.”

“Come on, Rita; this is me, okay? I told you I'll keep them in order. Don't you trust me?”

“It's not a matter of trust,” she said tersely. “It's a matter of procedures. Even if I wanted to let you back there, Mr. Hunter doesn't allow it.”

They were standing at the reference desk, which formed a long U, at least fifty feet in its perimeter. T.J. could look from here through the windows, which formed part of the wall of the back issue room, where the newspapers were stacked on floor-to-ceiling bookcases. Rita's black hair was tied back severely into a tight ponytail. She wore little, if any, makeup and her horn-rimmed glasses were bent slightly askew.
Her officious behavior wouldn't go down any easier if she were a babe
, T.J. thought to himself. In fact, her colorless face and form fit the role she played perfectly.

“It's just that I'm not exactly sure what dates I need,” he admitted. “If I could kind of sort through some of the back papers, I might be able to figure it out.”

“Mr. Hunter used to let people
sort through
all the time,” replied Rita quickly. “That's why the papers were always out of sequence or had parts missing. There's no point arguing this, because I don't make the rules. Here's a search form, if you want to fill it out.” She pushed him a small white card that was clearly a refugee from the old card catalog.

T.J. took the card while he exhaled large in frustration.
There was no use arguing with the bitch, that was for sure. You give someone a little power, and then look what happens
. He went to the nearest table so he could sit down and rack his brain. The problem was, it had been more than a month since LuAnn's death. He could identify the exact day when the suicide occurred, but the follow-up and/or investigative articles he wanted to see could have been printed within days of her death or many days later. If it wasn't exactly that the trail was cold, by now it would surely be branched off in many directions.

There might be several newspapers in the mix. Articles could have been run in the Peoria paper, the Springfield paper, or even the
Chicago Tribune
or
Sun-Times
. While T.J. was considering these possibilities, Rita came to take the seat beside him. “Get me the
Tribune
for the first week of August,” he told her.

“You have to write it down,” she replied. “Name of the paper and the dates you want. And no more than three issues at a time.”

She is Mrs. Rubin in training
, he thought.
She will probably skip her twenties and thirties and go straight into her forties
. He thought these thoughts, but wrote “
Chicago Tribune
, August 1, 2, and 3” on the card.

While Rita was locating the newspapers in the room with the windows, T.J. opened his copy of
Hamlet
and began leafing through the pages aimlessly.
To be or not to be …
He closed the cover just as quickly as he'd opened it. That had been the question for LuAnn, but she had chosen the wrong answer. Why, though? Why did she do that?

Rita brought him the three issues of the
Trib
, but it was no go. It didn't take long to review each newspaper because he could eliminate the sports and the business sections immediately. Then, it was just a quick flip through the front and the Tempo sections. He sent Rita back for August 4, 5, and 6.

But it was the same result: He came up empty. When he sent her back for the next three subsequent dates, she asked him, “How long does this go on?”

“I don't know. I can't say exactly what it is I'm looking for.”

“No. Really?”

“Yeah, well, I guess that's what rules and regulations do for us. I told you I could save you a lot of work if you'd just let me look through on my own.”

“Very funny.” When she returned, she brought him a whole week's worth of
Tribunes
. “I'll never tell,” T.J. promised.

“You better not.” Rita returned to her computer behind the reference desk. T.J. didn't know her well, but well enough to know that she had very little life other than academics and the school paper. She was a loner and just nerdy enough to be picked on. Since it was Friday afternoon, the library was nearly empty; two students were working on computers located near the magazines, searching the Internet.

It took some time, but then he found an article that was right on target. More or less. It was a feature on religious cults, in the Tempo section, dated August 14. It was a long and thorough piece dealing with cults from various locations, but there were several references to LuAnn and Camp Shaddai along the way.

The writer pointed out how volatile the mix could be when there were unstable young people caught in the galvanizing group mentality of religious cults. One passage in particular that caught T.J.'s eye was a reference to LuAnn and depression. According to the writer, LuAnn was not only pregnant when she joined the troops at Camp Shaddai, she was under treatment for depression as well. But there were no specific details about the depression itself or what this
treatment
consisted of.