The Assigned (15 page)

I thank her by nodding and smiling.

“Besides, girls-night-in is always in order.”

My eyes widen with shock at Prophetess Anna’s moment of normality.

I call A’ma to let her know I won’t be coming home. Initially she snarls at my newfound attitude but a few quick reminders of her own recent conduct quiet her down. A knock at the apartment door cuts our conversation short. Although we hardly ever get visitors, I’m too afraid to stay on the phone and find out. The last time there was a knock on our front door it changed my life, and not necessarily for the better.

Hours later, Anna and I enjoy tea as we sit, legs crossed, on a soft, Italian leather couch. I’ve changed into a pair of Anna’s pajamas. They actually seem quite normal for the unconventional woman. She states she’s never worn them, which almost leads me to believe, somehow, they were meant for me. Anna even sports a pair of footies. It’s an understatement to say they contrast with her highly decorative golden colored pantsuit.

“So you can just read people’s minds?” I ask. Anna laughs, but the look on my face tells her I desire a serious answer.

“No, my child,” she smiles. “At least not in that manner. I see things—visions. But I am capable of reading individuals and that can tell me a lot.” A subtle change happens in Anna’s voice as a quick grin sets in the corner of her mouth. “And I mean a whhooooole lot.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.

“You know what I speak of. I was not always the woman you see today. I too was once young.”

She’s right. Who am I fooling? “I mean, I don’t know. One minute I can’t stand him, the next, he’s saving my life or doing something cute.”

Anna’s smile widens. “I understand my child. Just keep your focus. You must serve as the balance between the Three. There will be times when your counterparts are distracted by pride or ego. After all, they can’t help the fact they’re
men
.”

“Anna!” I laugh. I didn’t see that coming. Prophetess Anna continues to grin as she pours us another cup of tea. “Focus, my child,” she says. “So about your
father
. Have you talked to him since that night?”

Her abrupt shift in conversation completely changes my demeanor. “For what?” I say. “I have nothing to say to that man.” Making my way to the other side of the room, Anna doesn’t let up.

“My child, you must hear his side of the story.”

“I don’t wanna see him. I couldn’t face him even if I wanted too. Deacon Nichols? My … Dad?”

“You must talk to him, my child. You do not want to spend the rest of your life wondering. You have forgiven your mother, have you not?”

“Yeah,” I say. “But she’s all I got. Her ways are flawed but we all—” I stop. Anna catches it too. “Proceed,” she nods. “Still, it’s no excuse,” I sigh. “How could he just sit there all those years and pretend?”

“Pretend?” says Anna, casually clearing the coffee table. “My child, what if he never knew?” Although she never looks up to gauge my response, her words entice me to think. “You have the Gift of Hearing,” she continues. “Listen to your heart.”

She briefly leaves the room with a tray full of expensive-looking china. I take the moment to do some conversation shifting of my own.

“So Anna. That little move you worked on Tre. Think you could teach it to me?”

“Rebuke?”
says Anna. “Well it was to be part of your training, but I see no harm in getting a head start on the boys.”

Did Prophetess Anna just wink? There is definitely more to this woman than we’ve seen so far.

“MAARRRTINNN!!!”

I jump from my slumber, soaking wet. The nightmares haven’t stopped since my brother’s death. More vivid than the ones that frequented me before his passing, these lucid images cause me to experience the happening over and over.

I’m really thinking about not attending services this morning. I look over to the night stand but remember my morning ritual has changed. No more whiskey. Guess I’ll have to summon the strength on my own. It’s been months since my last visit to church and I’m sure my appearance is likely to cause a spectacle. The prodigal son, home after such a painful episode in the Turner household.

Maybe me being there will help a little,
I think to myself. I haven’t really talked to my father much since …

Okay, enough of that.
This is a fresh start. A new beginning,
I tell myself in the mirror before breaking out into song and dance in my ever-so-fresh puppy-dog boxers.

“I got power, oh yeah!”

“I got power, oh yeah!”

“I got
P
- I got
O
- I got double
UUUU
- I got
E
- I got
R
”

“I got pow-pow-pow-pow-
POWER!!!!
”

I strut around the bathroom like a member of the Temptations. Distracting myself a bit seems to lighten my mood.

***

I try to remember the made-up song as I enter the church. A large poster with my parents’ picture greets members at the front doors. Never seen this one before. Must be new. At least slightly new …

As I look around, I think about the labor my father has gone through in establishing a modern worship center. An African-American man who spent his childhood in the race struggles of the sixties, my father, Pastor William Turner, Jr. is now proud to lead a multi-racial congregation. Last time I checked, around 2,000 people attend services every Sunday. Sometimes I wonder how it makes him feel to have his only two children rarely in attendance.

Mere steps inside and I am swamped by dozens of people before the start of service. Many offer condolences at the sight of the Pastor’s firstborn son. Some of these people I’ve known since I was a little kid, when the church was nothing more than a storefront and a handful of members. Other faces, I hardly recognize. Many, not at all. Most comment on how they left me messages, did I get their cards, and so on. I try my best to remain cordial during the friendly bombardment.

“You desire a way of escape?” whispers a voice from behind.

“Prophetess!—Uhh, Anna,” I smile. “YES!” I begin to ad-lib my way out of the press. “Yes, my friends—God bless you all—I must show our visitor to her seat,” I say, holding Anna’s hand in the air. “Don’t wanna be late—uhh—praise God!”

The Prophetess and I make our way to the sanctuary. “Thanks Prophetess. It’s been a long time since …”

“I understand, my child. And how was your sleep?”

“Not so good, actually. These dreams won’t go away. Like they’re trying to tell me something.” The worship service starts as highly skilled musicians and singers lead the congregation in a fast-paced melody.

“We shall discuss more,” says the Prophetess. “The key is to remain focused.”

“So what did you and Gloria talk about last night?” I ask.

“Would not you like to know?” she smiles before standing and joining the audience in clapping to the music.

“
Would not you like to know?”
Who talks like that? Geez.

Finally, I take a cue from Prophetess Anna and try to engulf myself in the service. Might as well. I’m here. People of various ethnicities sing, clap, and even jump, during the highly energized opener. I had almost forgotten the boost one can get at my Father’s church … at
my
church. Maybe it’s the encouraging words in the songs or the creative riffs and beats of the musicians. Maybe I’m a bit homesick. Whatever it is, I definitely feel something. Not in the manner of enhanced strength or powers, but something more along the lines of peace … hope … love.

The large crowd roars as my father and mother walk onto the stage, a day after burying their youngest child. The couple makes their way to the podium, holding each other around the waist. My father doesn’t speak, merely shaking his head. He doesn’t have to, as his eyes fill with emotion. His face tells it all. It prompts the packed auditorium into an even louder ovation. Prophetess Anna squeezes a tissue through my clenched hand. I hadn’t noticed the tears.

“Me and Liz,” the grieving leader finally speaks. “We want to thank you for all your various expressions of love during this time. We have not, I repeat, we have not seen our greatest days. The best is yet to come.”

Applause, once again, erupts from the seats. My father continues. “It’s no secret my son had his troubles. I’m not ashamed to talk about that. See, when a pastor is doing what he should be doing, the enemy can’t get him to fall. So instead, he goes after his family, his children.” I look around and see people nodding in agreement. Soft spoken
amens
can be heard. “But the last few months, I saw a change in my son. He was actually … trying. Trying to get away from some of the demons that plagued his young adult life …”
Demons
. I think about Bale and his men. If only my father knew. “… trying to become a better member of society. He was
trying
. And so I say to you young people, do all that you can do to better yourself, to be productive. So what if you won’t graduate in four years. Are you trying? So what you had a baby out of wedlock. Are you trying?”

My father’s voice grows in fervor and volume. People rise again as the passion the charismatic pastor is so known for begins to emerge. “Me and Liz,” Dad holds mom tight. “See, we work on this every day. And we gon’ keep TRYING until the day one of us leaves this world.” Musicians accompany my father’s words, mimicking his rhythm and pitch. I’ve never noticed it until now, but that’s where I get some of my swagger from.
That’s my dad
, I smile with pride. “And thank God we still have one child. He’s not here today but I—” Rumblings vocalize throughout the audience. “I’m sorry, what? He’s where?”

“He’s here!”
the crowd shouts in unison. A cameraman finds my location, beaming my image to the projector screen. I smile softly, lowering my head. The two parents turn around to see the screen. “Is that you Tre?” my father asks over the microphone.
Go on Tre,
murmur folks seated near me.

“You feel like giving your old man a hug?” asks my father in a comforting voice I haven’t heard in quite some time. The Prophetess firmly grabs my hand before softly letting go.

I gather my thoughts and my body as I stand. Emotions swell as I make my way down the long aisle. I do everything not to cry but it becomes near impossible as I make my way to the stage. Climbing the steps, I see my mourning parents open their arms. The sight almost brings me to my knees. I want to tell my dad so badly how sorry I am, but as I try to mouth the words he quiets me.

“Shhh. You don’t have to say anything. You’re my son, Tre. You’re my SON. YOU’RE … MY … SON.” Holding nothing back, I break down in the arms of my father as his words speak to my wounded spirit.

***

Some time later, glancing at my watch, I notice the moment has lasted for nearly twenty minutes. I’m not quite sure how long I held on to my father. I only remember an endless supply of tissue, ever so often, being pushed into my hand by one of the assistants. Now I’m seated on stage next to my mother. She looks over every now and then to smile and pat my knee. My father talks about how I never stopped moving and how he nicknamed me
Squirmy
while still in my mother’s womb because of my non-stop activity, even way back then. He then goes on to say the
Man Upstairs
shared with him in a dream, that I hadn’t seen my last end zone, referring to me scoring touchdowns again in the NFL someday. This leads to an impromptu chant of,
“T-N-T! T-N-T!”
I smile as I gesture ‘calm down’ to the crowd. “I’ve also been told we have some special guests in the house this morning,” my father continues. “I’m sure you young people know all about him and I—yes, yours truly has even seen a couple of his action movies. And we’re so glad that while visiting our city he chose to worship with us this morning. Now let’s give it up for Mr. Jason Bale!”

I scan the audience though I can see nothing through the now standing mass. No need. The cameraman finds Bale and entourage seated near the back of the church. Cheers erupt as the celebrity’s face is plastered on the screen. I can’t believe it.

“What … in … Hell …”

My eyes quickly find the Prophetess seated in the middle of the sanctuary. She holds up an open hand as if to say … wait. I turn my attention back to Bale. Sporting a red tie in his otherwise usual white attire, Bale stands as he waves to the crowd, even blowing a kiss. His ovation rivals that of the one given to my father. People whisper as others snap away with camera phones.
How can they be so naïve?
My thoughts quickly remind me of where I was just weeks ago. To the new me, Bale is a manipulative demon. Literally. To the people, Jason Bale is a handsome, talented, rich businessman and movie star.
“But how can he even set foot inside a church?”
I murmur under my breath.

“Would you like to come up and have a word, Mr. Bale?” asks my father. “What?!” I nearly jump from my seat. Those seated close to me mistake my reaction for excitement. Bale smiles and shakes his head, no. My father persists. “Oh come on. There’s no telling when we’ll be graced by your presence again.”

“Dad!” I shout, wishing my father was now privy to all the knowledge I’ve acquired over the last few days. He hardly hears me, the crowd now egging Bale on.

“Okay, okay!” Bale playfully shouts from the back of the auditorium. “But I’ll stand right here. An usher quickly brings the star a microphone. “Thanks. Don’t wanna get too close to the pulpit,” he jokes.
I bet
. My eyes reach for the Prophetess. We seem to be the only ones not amused. “But seriously, I have definitely enjoyed myself in your city. Everyone has made me feel right at home …”

“Feels like Hell huh,” I blurt.

“… and I wish you, Pastor Turner, your wife, your son Tre, whom I’m a huge fan of …” My father turns, proudly nodding towards me. “… nothing but the best. I have great plans for this city and I hope you all can be a part.” The crowd offers the vile intruder the same prolonged applause offered to my father.

For the remainder of the service, my eyes are affixed upon Bale and his crew. My father may have just delivered the sermon of his life, but I wouldn’t know. I can think of nothing more than jumping off this stage, leaping a few pews, and putting an end to the
Jason Bale Show.
Although a distance off, it almost looks as if Bale winks at me a couple of times.
That arrogant …

I wait for the Shadow to rise around the demonoid superstar or any one of his accompanying Angels. I wait for my Gifts to flare but nothing surfaces, other than my natural disdain for what I see. Occasionally I glance towards the Prophetess who does little other than shake her head.

After service, young and old alike, rush to shake Bale’s hand. Some beg for pictures.

“Do you believe this?” I say, getting to the Prophetess.

“Quiet yourself, my child,” she says nonchalantly. “Bale did not come here to fight.”

“Well I’m about ready to …”

“He wanted to gather information on what he is up against. We must now practice extreme caution. He knows of your family. It is only a matter of time before he learns of the others, if he has not already done so. I am also sure by now he knows you are receiving my guidance.”

“Maybe not,” I say. “There’s a lot of people here. Just stay back.”

Bale makes his way through the crowd, snapping shots and signing autographs. He makes sure his presence is felt. I’ve seen enough as I make my way through the press.

“What are you doing here, you snake?”

“Tre! What are you doing?” asks a member clamoring for a photo. The big one—Amnon—grunts as his eyes try to intimidate me. It doesn’t work. “You want some more, big boy?”

“Trrrrrreeeee,”
smiles Bale as he autographs a teen’s necktie. “Tre Turner. Or do you like to be called William? Your father has a lovely church.”

“I thought your kind couldn’t even stand near a church.”

“Now where’d you hear a thing like that?” he laughs. “I’m not a vampire.”

“Close enough,” I grit through my teeth, fists balled.

“On the contrary. I love church. Some of my closest friends attend regularly. As a matter of fact, I think I see a few of them here today.” Bale’s Angels chuckle under their tight white suits.

“Why you—”

“So this is who’s been helping you … little Anna.”

“Prophetess!” I shout. “I said stay back.”

“No matter my child,” she says, now standing boldly to my right. Her eyes cut through Bale’s flesh without the slightest hesitation as she proclaims, “I fear no evil.”

“Oh, so it’s
Prophetess
now,” Bale smirks, turning to his Angels. “Well I guess congratulations are in order, little Anna. Oh pardon me …” Bale takes a mimicking tone as he bows.
“… Prophetess.”

The Prophetess nods. “The years have been kind to you, Bale. Almost too kind.”

“Why thank you little Anna. Guess I can’t call you little anymore. What are you now, like ninety?”

“Alive and well.”

Bale’s irritating grin firms up. “So you are.
So you are
.”

“And to what do we owe this honor, Beelzebub. My apologies. It is
Jason Bale
now, correct?”

“That’s okay, little Anna. I’ve moved on from that identify. Why waste time fighting with the Other? I’m rich, successful, the biggest star in the world. What else could I want?”

“What you have always wanted,” answers the Prophetess. “To
rule
this world.”