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Authors: Dijorn Moss

BOOK: Men After God's Own Heart
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“Hey, boy, what do you say we go and get a couple of those burritos at King Taco?” Will's father said to Joshua.
That was all it took for Joshua to make his way to the passenger side of the vehicle without hesitation.
“Joshua, come here, man,” Will said.
“Man, don't get involved,” Odell replied.
Will addressed his father with his hands and not his eyes. “Man, I don't got nothing to say to you except that I'll pray for you, because you got some real issues pulling a gun on your own son.”
“Son or not, I won't take being disrespected. And you ain't so perfect yourself.”
“I know, which is why I stay praying, and I pray for you because in the end we all going to have to give account for God, and you have systemically destroyed this family in more ways than one.”
Joshua stopped and stood frozen in his tracks, not sure what to do in this situation. Will's father, on the other hand, put the car in park and got out. He stopped within striking distance and allowed Will to consider the head and shoulder size advantage Odell had over him, but Will did not back down, nor was he intimidated.
“It seems like I'm going to have to show you who the alpha dog is in this family,” Odell growled.
“A year ago you came to this shop and told me that you were a changed man. You remember that? What happened?”
“Will, you got me?” a customer yelled from inside the barbershop.
“In a minute. Just wait in the chair,” Will said.
“The false sense of freedom wore off. The truth is that I'm not truly free, even out here, and people won't let me change, so what else is there? I had to wake up,” Odell said. And with that statement, Will's father backed up, as if he was scared to turn his back on his son. “Get in the car now, Josh.”
Josh got in the car, and the emotional tug-of-war was over. Will stood in the parking lot even after his father sped off, leaving burning tire track marks in his wake. He was transfixed by what had transpired. Will wanted so much for his father to go back to prison, where he could destroy his own life and not the lives of those around him.
Will walked back into the shop with his head spinning from the revelation. His brother was in a gang. The only question was, what would Will have to do to get his brother out?
Chapter Seven
Quincy
The store smelled like old shoe polish and looked like it hadn't been dusted in quite a while. Within the confines of the gun shop was every tool built for destruction, and Quincy got giddy at the sight of it. Quincy held the Taurus 24-pistol firmly in his hand. The power to control someone's fate lay in his hands, and Quincy felt like a god, small
g.
“Don't you think that the ‘disapproving father with the gun' act is a little cliché?” Jamal asked while positioned next to the sporting wear.
“I admit that it's not the most novel idea I've come up with, but it will work, nonetheless.” Quincy aimed the gun toward a mannequin that was dressed in army fatigues.
“Brother Page, I don't think that you have consulted the Lord on this matter. I know that the enemy is at work,” Chauncey said.
“I already know what God will say. He'll tell me to turn the other cheek or something like that.... He knows my heart.” Quincy then looked at Will. “What about this one?”
“Jamming problems,” Will said.
Quincy put down the Glock pistol and picked up the Beretta that the gun dealer had sat on top of the display case for Quincy's viewing. “Now we're talking. This is some Mel Gibson
Lethal Weapon
type of madness.”
“Beretta nine millimeter has both double and single action. Firm grip and can hold fifteen rounds. Its design came from military. . . .” Will stopped when he looked at Jamal.
Jamal made a hand gesture to Will to not encourage Quincy. Jamal walked over to a knife rack and started to examine the different knives. “I know this might be difficult, but Sasha is what? Twenty? She's a grown woman.”
“She's too young to throw her life away. She was being irresponsible and reckless,” Quincy said.
“Where I'm from, we call that being something else,” Will said.
“The Bible has also got a word for it,” Chauncey said before Quincy shot him a disconcerted look.
Quincy could not understand where he had gone wrong. Private schools, piano lessons, study groups, and church activities. He and Karen had raised their daughter not to be passive, not to live in a constant state of waiting. Waiting for her check to arrive, waiting for her EBT card, waiting for her Section 8 housing to get approved. Waiting for her Prince Charming, who was a cross between 50 Cent and Obama with an obese bank account. He had raised Sasha not to be a recipient in life, but a participant.
“Look, I know that the Bible teaches that we're to respect life and that abortion is wrong, but honestly, I wouldn't be mad if she decided to have an abortion.” Quincy sat the handgun on the table and hit the counter. “This is my baby girl! She can play Beethoven just by the sense of sound. We go to a Mexican restaurant, and she can order off the menu with fluent Spanish. She can even break down the fine points of the health care debate. I don't want this for her.”
“It doesn't mean that her life is over,” Jamal said.
“It means that
my
life is over. I just got used to walking around in my drawers. My wife and I christened every room in our house.”
“That's so good that you christened the house. God will bless you two,” Chauncey said, aloof.
“Who invited him?” Quincy looked at Jamal and Will, who in response shrugged their shoulders. “I'm not ready to be a grandfather. I'm still trying to get my grown and sexy on. I don't need another reminder that I'm getting old.”
“I'm sorry, Q, but it just seems like this is more about you and less about Sasha,” Jamal said.
“Look, you try raising your child and giving them every advantage they need to be successful in life, only for them to throw that back in your face by getting pregnant their sophomore year in college. It's easy to coach from the cheap seats. Talk to me when you're on the field. Until then, step!” Quincy made a hand gesture for Jamal to step off.
“Look, Q, there's no need to get defensive. We're just trying to help,” Jamal replied.
“Yeah, we got you're back, Grandpa Q,” Will teased.
That marked the first time someone had muttered the statement that Quincy was old. That he would never play four downs in the Super Bowl was a bitter pill to swallow. Being old meant that Quincy would never have to learn the triangle offense, and he was too old to audition for
American Idol.
He thought of the loss of those days, and then of the days that lay ahead, the discount breakfasts and the more frequent checkups. Quincy ebbed and flowed from contentment to contempt.
“Look, we all make mistakes, but God can fix any situation to the point where it would seem like that was His plan all along. Just give them a chance,” Chauncey said.
“When is the guy coming over?” Will asked.
“Saturday.” Quincy hit his head and then scratched it. “I guess I should be thankful that there is only one father, instead of two potential fathers, like on those television shows. When she was in school, I used to tell her that no man was going to buy a pair of worn shoes. She made it through high school on that analogy. I hoped that she would be able to survive college on that same logic.”
“Q, that doesn't mean that you did something wrong as a parent. It just means that she made a poor decision as an adult,” Jamal said.
Another sign that Quincy had gotten old. He held up the gun to the surfer-looking employee with a Mohawk. “I'll take this one,” Quincy said.
“Okay, sir. Well, we have a ten-day waiting period. I'll just need your driver's license and a thumbprint, and you have to take a HSC test,” the employee said.
“A test? What is this? The DMV?” Quincy placed the gun on the counter, reached into his pocket, removed seven one-hundred-dollar bills, and placed them on the counter.
“I'm sorry, sir. We have a ten-day waiting period,” the employee repeated.
Quincy reached into his pocket and pulled out another hundred-dollar bill.
“We have a ten-day waiting period,” the employee said again with a smile.
“I ain't trying to be funny or nothing, but since when did the gun store grow a conscience? Doc, you got enough guns to supply the Afghan army. You probably have some missing WMDs in here.”
“California has a very strict gun policy, and you have to demonstrate an understanding of the safety procedures before I can let you own one,” the employee informed him.
“Oh no, I'm not planning to use it. I just want to scare this boy. You know the enraged father routine. You know? You don't even have to give me bullets.”
“Look, dude, unless you're going to take the test and wait the ten days, I can't do nothing for you,” the employee said as he opened the display case, prepared to put the guns back where he had gotten them from.
“Hold on,” Jamal said to the employee before he turned to Quincy. “I know you're not about to go this route. If you think it's bad being a father, imagine being a grandfather. Then imagine being a grandfather in San Quentin.”
“He's got a point, Q,” Will said.
“Amen! Finally, somebody talking with some sense,” Chauncey said.
Will, Jamal, and Quincy all looked at Chauncey, as if to tell him to shut up. Jamal's statement gave Quincy pause. This was not a Madea film. This was real life, and he could not shoot his way out of the problem. Of course, there might be another alternative. Quincy looked at the employee. “You wouldn't happen to have a rocket launcher, would you?”he asked.
Chapter Eight
Titus
After the eight o'clock service, Titus greeted his members in front of the pulpit. Titus did this every week, though he was exhausted after his sermons, just to let the people know that he had not lost his common touch. Even though his schedule was full with speaking engagements, which usually meant he had to hop on a flight immediately after the service, Titus still took a few minutes after each service to shake hands with those in his congregation who were not in a rush to go home or go to brunch. Grace accompanied Titus. She stepped into her role of first lady nicely. She was kind and pleasant, but above all, she was genuine.
Mother Ruth remained a loyal supporter of Greater Anointing. At eighty-three, she made sure not to miss a service. Mother Ruth approached Titus and made a gesture with her lips, and the six-foot-five-inch frame of Titus bent down for her to kiss him on the cheek. Aside from Jesus, only a strong woman of faith could cause a man of Titus's stature to stoop down.
“God bless you, Mother Ruth. How are things?” Titus said after he stood back up straight.
“I'm fine. The doctor says my cholesterol is in good shape.”
“All right now. Now, don't go off to no Roscoe's or R & J's Soul Food,” Titus said after he let out a snicker.
“I won't, Pastor. I won't.” Ruth made her way out the side exit.
Titus glanced at Grace. She had a disposition as gloomy as an overcast day, cloaked in a Christian smile. Sister Norworthy had just walked by Grace to get to him without saying so much as a word.
“God bless you, Sister Norworthy.” Titus shook her hand with both hands. “Doesn't the first lady look great?” Titus pointed back to his wife so that Sister Norworthy would acknowledge her.
“Oh. I'm sorry, First Lady. I didn't see you. Those shoes are cute.” Sister Norworthy pointed toward the suede wraparound Jimmy Choos that Titus had just bought Grace.
“Thank you, and you look great, Sister Norworthy.” Grace said.
Sister Norworthy turned her attention back to Titus. “Pastor, I was wondering, when are you going to start preaching the evening service again?” Sister Norworthy was referring to the seven o'clock service on Sunday evening. Titus used to preach all three services on Sunday, but since he'd married Grace, Titus had preached only the eight o'clock and the eleven o'clock services. He allowed other ministers to preach the seven o'clock. Sometimes Titus would allow visiting ministers to preach the eight o'clock as well.
“I don't know, Sister Norworthy. Maybe someday soon.” Titus flashed a halfhearted smile.
Sister Norworthy walked away with displeasure written clearly across her face.
“God bless you, Pastor Dawkins,” Tamika Cain said as she stood and blocked Titus's view of Grace.
“Excuse me one second, Sister Cain.” Titus took Grace by the hand and pulled her into Tamika's view.
“Oh, I am so sorry, First Lady. I didn't see you,” Tamika said.
“That's quite all right!” Grace said.
This was a blatant act of disrespect, which Titus did not tolerate toward his wife. Grace remained gracious, as her name implied, as that was her nature.
“When are you going to teach Bible study again?” Tamika asked.
“Not for another month, Sister Cain. I have to go out of town on Monday and speak at a convocation.” Titus put his arm around Grace. “It's going to be hard, though, leaving this beautiful woman at home.”
Titus's gesture was greeted with rolled eyes from Tamika.
“I'm sure she'll be fine,” Tamika said.
“God bless you,” Grace said with a smile that conveyed the opposite of what she truly wanted to say.
A lot of the women of the congregation shared similar sentiments with Sister Norworthy and Tamika. The congregation took Titus's engagement to Grace like a bitter pill swallowed with honey. A lot of members uprooted themselves and left, and Pastor Dawkins wondered if Sister Norworthy's and Tamika's lack of respect for the first lady was only the beginning of much larger issues.
 
 
Later on that night, at an hour when no one called unless it was an emergency, the phone rang. The phone woke Titus and Grace out of their sleep in a panic.
“Hello?” Grace asked, half asleep.
Deep breaths.
“Hello? Who is this?”
Deep breaths.
“I'm hanging up!”
The unknown caller beat Grace to the hanging up, and two minutes later the phone rang again.
“You're going to have to get that under control, Titus,” Grace said, with her back turned toward Titus.
Titus wanted to play coy, but his wife was too smart, and an insult to her intelligence would have added unnecessary tension. Titus remembered when the phone rang at all hours of the night at his parents' house. The callers were desperate women who wanted to be soothed and comforted by their pastor. Titus ignored the phone calls, while his father didn't.

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