Blue Star Rapture (9 page)

It didn't work for T.J., however. He lit a cigarette before he said, “You can't just run away, though.”

“Do you think I'm running away?”

“I don't want to hurt your feelings or anything, but I don't know what else you'd call it. If you've got problems, even if it's a major one like being knocked up, you have to find a way to face up to it.”

“I'm not running away,” she protested, “I'm running
to
. I'm running to the Lord for guidance.”

“And that's another thing. Just because you run away with a preacher, that doesn't make it any different. Know what I mean?”

“I didn't run away with Brother Jackson. He just brought me here. He's in Oklahoma or Missouri now.”

“Is he the father?”

The question was too blunt or too irrelevant, apparently. She turned her face away. “It doesn't matter.”

“Okay, I'm sorry for asking.”

“You don't have to apologize. It's just that it doesn't matter because it's my own sin, no matter who the father is.”

“I don't see why it has to have anything to do with sin,” said T.J.

When she turned to face him again, her smile was back in place. “Do you believe in dreams?” she asked.

“What's not to believe? People have dreams.”

“No, but do you believe dreams have meanings?”

“They're supposed to have a subconscious meaning, at least according to psychiatrists.”

“It's not psychiatry that I care about, though. It's the Lord's will. If you believe that the Lord speaks to you in dreams, He can direct your thoughts and actions.”

“Really,” said T.J.

LuAnn went on, “I've had a dream twice this week about the pale horse. Over and over, I saw this white horse running across the footbridge.”

“This footbridge?”

“This very one. He was so loud! His hooves were just pounding and pounding on the boards. It was very hollow sounding and very loud. His body was all sweaty and the sweat was foaming him over like lather.”

Her sense of urgency at this point increased T.J.'s interest, in spite of himself. “It sounds like something from the Bible,” he said.

“There's a passage from Revelation, chapter six. It says, ‘And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed after him.'”

“Okay, then that explains it—you had a dream about the Bible.”

“You don't understand Spirit-filled living, though, T.J. The Gifts of the Spirit can enlighten us beyond our mortal understanding.”

“You're right, I don't understand Spirit-filled living. I don't even know what it is.”

Her smile was still there, while the dreamlike countenance might have been merely a haloed effect from the feeble available light. She wanted him to understand. “I've had the dream twice, which tells me the Lord wants to work through me. It's really very blessed. Now I need help to interpret the dream, but Sister Simone is here to help me. She has the Gift of interpretation, as well as the Gift of prophecy.”

“What about the gift of IQ? I mean your own brain.”

“I asked you not to be sarcastic.”

“It seems pretty simple to me,” T.J. declared. “You spend all day studying the Bible, so why wouldn't you dream about it at night?”

“Yes, but if only you could someday be baptized in the Spirit, you might understand. That's what I think of when I pray for you.”

“You pray for me?” T.J. was flabbergasted. His own confusion made it impossible to know where his impatience was rooted. Nevertheless, he said, “I gotta tell you, LuAnn, this all sounds like a lot of political bullshit to me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I'm talkin' about the whole thing. The preacher who brings you here, the counselor who says she's never going to die. I mean, why doesn't somebody like just tell you to go home and work things out with your parents?”

“You don't even know Sister Simone. How can you talk about her?” Her smile was gone.

T.J. couldn't deny what she said. He
didn't
know Sister Simone, so if she gave him bad vibes, even if the whole Bible camp itself did, what did it prove? He really didn't know anything about it. He finally said, “I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings. It just doesn't seem right to me.”
If I fucked up with Ishmael and with Tyron, I might as well fuck up here too
.

“T.J., I'm talking about surrendering to the Lord Himself, so why would you bring up politics?”

The answer seemed easy. “Everything in life seems like politics to me right now.”

“It's crazy, though, isn't it? Me talking about gifts from the Holy Spirit, and you bringing up Republicans and Democrats.”

“You think politics is about
Congress?
Is that what you think? That's not even the tip of the iceberg. Politics is when you can manipulate systems to your own benefit. It's how you get power.”

“You mean like kissing up.”

“I mean exactly like kissing up. If it gets you power you can use, it's political.”

LuAnn had her headband off; she was redefining the folds so that all the letters would be fully visible. When the headband was back in place, she put her hand on his arm. “I'm still going to pray for you.”

T.J. said, “Thank you.” He couldn't think of anything else.

“You hurt my feelings, but that only means I haven't surrendered completely. I know you mean well. Your heart is in the right place. I'm sure the Lord will bless you for it.”

She was smiling again.

EIGHT

The first game was easy, but everyone knew it would be. T.J. blended in without exerting himself. When Evans's asthma began acting up again, he needed to play more but it didn't matter—he was pacing himself. Ishmael Greene was his usual splendid self, but since the game was so lopsided, he spent most of the last quarter on the bench. Buddy wanted to rest him for the championship game, which came later.

Tyron had a monster game, even if the opposition was inferior. He had four dunks and a host of rebounds. When he was seated on the bench, and during time-outs, T.J. kept to himself; he took no part in the high-fiving or the yukking it up.

During the one-hour break before the championship game, T.J. went to the first aid building to get his ankle taped. The camp doctor was there, examining Evans. T.J. sat on the table while Bridget taped his ankle tight with one careful layer after another.

From this position, he could see—just barely—to the far bluff and the west end of the footbridge. There was a commotion that looked like sheriff's cars and an ambulance, but it was hard to tell for sure. It looked as if sheriffs' deputies were putting a barricade at the entrance to the bridge.

It was all too far away to determine exactly what might be occurring, but what he could make out gave him a queasy feeling. It could be anything, though. Most likely, the queasy feeling was only the by-product he often felt when there was information he thought he needed but couldn't get.

When she was done taping him, Bridget said, “By the way, I looked up the word
feckless
. There is such a word.”

“So what's it mean?”

“You wanta know, you can look it up like I did.”

“Thanks a lot.”

Before he left the building, T.J. heard the doctor tell Evans, “I think you need to sit this one out, son. I'm sorry.”

The Blue Stars won the championship game by more than ten points. One reason why—a big one—was the way T.J. played. He wasn't the star of the game by any stretch; he scored only nine points. But he understood what he needed to provide to give his own team an advantage—defense.

Guarding Ronnie Streets was like chasing butterflies without a net, but T.J. found himself at a level of focused intensity as consuming as it was unfamiliar. He refused to let Streets break him down. He refused to let fatigue undermine his concentration, which was footwork. If he could force Streets to shoot perimeter jump shots, where he was only average, then he could check him.

It worked even better than he dared to hope. As soon as Streets missed some jump shots, he began trying to do too much. He shot too much. He forced plays that weren't there, throwing the ball away. His too-aggressive defense got him in foul trouble. Wherever he went on the court, with or without the ball, there was T.J., dogging him as tenaciously as a shadow.

Even though he got only two brief rests on the bench, T.J. refused to give in to pain or fatigue. There was no shortness of breath and no sore ankle, there was only the path to Streets, whether direct or around a series of screens.

It was late in the game when Streets attempted a highlight-film dunk on the fast break, but there was T.J. locked in perfect position to take the charge. The basket didn't count; Streets had fouled out of the game.

After that, the lead swelled quickly. T.J. got to sit out the last three minutes with the starters. Right next to Ishmael, who told him, “Nice game, man.”

T.J. was too short of breath for more than a one-word answer: “Thanks.”

“What I said yesterday was wrong, man. I'm sorry. You can play.”

T.J. didn't answer. He lowered his head and draped the wet towel to hide his face. He had tears forming in his eyes that he didn't want anyone to see. In the contemplative days and weeks ahead, he would ponder (among other things) how it was that he came to play such a great game. A game so much better than he had ever played before or imagined he could play. What blend of guilt, frustration, shame, and desperation caught upon this point in time? Might he have had this talent all along but no sufficient motivation to focus it? And what, if anything, about the girl on the bridge? There would be so many questions but so few answers.

Just as the game was winding down, but before the high fives began, T.J. said to Ishmael, “You don't have to apologize, Ishmael. You were right.”

“I was wrong, man. You can play.”

Ishmael saw what he needed to see. T.J. dropped the subject. He turned to look in the direction of the footbridge. It wasn't easy to see from here, but the space between the branches showed him there was yellow tape fixed to the railings on the far side, the kind used by police to seal off the scene of a crime or accident. He felt queasy in the stomach again.

Back in the dorm, they packed their gear. Some of the guys were in a hurry because they were being picked up by parents or other relatives. T.J. was in a hurry because he wanted to be out of here; he wanted to put distance between himself and Full Court as soon as he could. He felt like if he never played basketball again, he wouldn't have any regrets.

“Can't you hurry, Big Guy?” he urged Tyron.

Tyron was using a pair of the new shoes to establish a partition so he could separate the clean clothes from the dirty ones in his huge duffel bag. “I'm hurryin' already,” he replied.

“Why don't you see if you can hurry faster?”

The heavy vegetation surrounding the road out formed a tunnel that led back to reality, as far as he was concerned, and he was eager to follow it there. He was driving too fast, though, and it wasn't long before he noticed he was low on gas and the engine was overheating.

He pulled sharply into the gravel parking lot of Heaven's Gate.

“Not this place again,” Tyron said, and groaned. He seemed exhausted. He squirmed in his seat, striving in vain for additional room.

“It's only for a few minutes. We need gas, and the radiator's overheatin'.”

Tyron gave T.J. three crumpled-up one-dollar bills. “Get me a bag of nachos, okay, T.J.?”

“Okay.”

“And I'll take a Moon Pie too, if they have 'em. One Moon Pie and a bag of nachos.”

“Okay, okay.”

Inside, the light was low and the Garth Brooks hit was loud on the jukebox. Two guys were shooting pool. Beyond the pinball machine, some of the coaches from Full Court were hoisting beers and engaged in loud conversation.

The redneck guy behind the cash register was wearing overalls without a shirt and a hunting cap. He had a burn scar next to his left eyebrow. When T.J. told him he needed gas and water, the guy brought out a battered metal can with a spout from behind the counter. “Faucet's on the north side of the building,” he declared.

“I need some gas too,” said T.J.

“Turning it on now,” was the answer.

As soon as he was finished pumping the gas and adding water to the radiator, T.J. went inside to pay. Coach Lindsey, holding a longneck bottle of Bud Light, approached him near the register.

“What in hell happened to you back there?” he asked T.J.

“I played hard.”

“I guess. Streets is going to have to go home and reload his psyche.”

“What about Tyron?” T.J. asked him.

“We'll see,” Lindsey replied. “He played well, so we'll see. I'm still interested in what
you
did, though. I hope you're proud of yourself.”

“I did what I had to do,” T.J. answered immediately. He couldn't find significant pride in it, though. At least not yet. He looked directly into Lindsey's eyes before he said, “Isn't that what Full Court camp is for, Coach? Improvement?”

“I guess it is,” said the coach, with a laugh.

Then T.J. had a question for Lindsey. “What was the commotion up there by the footbridge?”

“You mean the cop cars and the ambulance.”

“Yeah. What was that about?”

“I'm not sure.” Lindsey jerked his head in the direction of other coaches who were still at the far end of the bar. “Somebody said someone got killed over at that Bible camp.”

“Who got killed?”

“I don't know. It could be just a rumor.”

“What's the rest of the rumor?”

“The rumor is, some girl committed suicide.”

T.J. found the rumor too disturbing. He paid for the gas but was distracted to the point he nearly forgot to get Tyron's snacks.