The Second Coming, page 7
But his two friends can’t stop.
“I said stop it! It’s not funny! At least my dad’s not an alcoholic drunk!”
They stop laughing instantly and glare at him.
“Uh-oh,” Ronnie mutters under his breath as Samuel’s laughter turns to anger and he stalks toward Eric, rolling up his sleeves.
“You better take that back, Eric, or . . .” He stops, too angry to continue, letting his threat hang in the air. Eric passes the ball back hard to Samuel, who doesn’t catch it.
Noticing their argument, Ruth watches with her hands on her hips. She decides not to interfere. Samuel should learn to deal with his personal challenges.
Eric already feels bad; he knows that he has crossed the line. However, since Samuel is clearly too angry to let it go, he doubles down. After all, he doesn’t want to look like a coward.
So he demands, “Or what, Sam? You’re going to kick my ass, like your dad does yours every other night—that’s whenever he’s at home and not at the bars. That’s why your grandma spends more time here, because he was never home when she used to try and drop you off, for as far as I can remember. Now she just waits, and waits, until he finally stumbles home, in his usual drunken stupor.”
The comment hits where it’s supposed to, and now Samuel turns red, not from embarrassment but from fury. Ronnie senses it and tries to stop Eric.
“Leave him alone, Eric,” he says. “That’s enough!”
Eric approaches Samuel and pushes him backward. Now Eric is too angry now to stop. A part of him knows that what he’s doing is wrong, but another part thinks that it’s too late to stop. He has lost control over himself.
“What ya gonna do now, li’l mama’s boy?!” he snarls, challenging Samuel further. Ronnie steps between the two, his arms outstretched. However, it turns out that there’s no need for intervention. Samuel answers Eric’s challenge with just one word.
“Nothing,” he says resolutely.
“Nothing?” Eric asks, taken aback.
“Yes, nothing,” Samuel repeats. “God doesn’t like ugly.”
“Wait a minute. What?” Eric asks, still not understanding.
“Because God doesn’t like it when people fight,” Samuel explains thoughtfully and then adds, “I’ll pray for you, Eric. You need Jesus.”
Eric stares at Samuel with confusion. He expected a fight, and he kind of wants one so he can release the frustration he has against his mother. Yet Samuel has thwarted his expectation.
He tries again. “Sam, you’re a freak show,” he says. When Samuel doesn’t respond, he adds, “You need serious help, bro.”
As Samuel ignores him again, Ruth casually walks over, carrying a basket of clothes. This has gone on long enough. Her grandson conducted himself very well and made her proud by refraining from a fight, precisely as she taught him. But she will not allow Eric to test him further. She’s wise enough to know that human patience has its limits.
When she reaches the boys, she asks, “Is everything alright, boys?”
All three boys choose not to answer. Samuel comes forward and takes the basket from Ruth. “Let me help you with this, Grandma.” Taking the basket, he heads toward the front door. Eric and Ronnie see this as their hint to leave. After saying goodbye to Ruth, they walk away together. Ronnie speaks in low tones to Eric, who trudges with his head down.
Ruth briskly catches up to her grandson. “If you’re a freak show, then I guess I’m a freak show, too,” she whispers in his ear, smiling. Samuel smiles up at her as they enter the trailer.
It’s quiet outside the trailer for several minutes. Then Samuel whips open the trailer door. He runs back out, picks up the newspaper, stares at it angrily, and throws it in the trash can. As he rushes back inside, slamming the door behind him, he doesn’t see his grandmother standing at the window, sadness written all over her face.
•••
It’s a beautiful morning in Beverly Hills, California. The sun shines on a lady leaving a dress shop on Rodeo Drive, carrying several shopping bags. She’s dressed in a plain white shirt and designer blue jeans. Despite the heat, she also has a black leather jacket on. She’s wearing black shades and a black scarf, a blatant attempt to hide who she is. While it’s normal for celebrities to wear such clothes to conceal their identities and divert the paparazzi, this woman stands out because she seems agitated. She taps her foot on the pavement. Perhaps she senses something wrong in the air, like she’s being watched, despite her attempts at concealment. Finally, a Tesla pulls up, and with quick, hurried steps, she approaches and gets in. The car immediately pulls away.
The woman’s intuition is right. Unbeknownst to her, a camera has constantly been snapping pictures of her, even as the car pulls away.
Later that same day, on a seafood pier in San Pedro, California, the observer is taking pictures of the same lady, who is now seated at a table with a man. Both of them eat from a tray piled high with seafood. It’s mainly a lobster platter, but there’s tuna, shrimp, and oysters as well, with cocktail sauce, some green vegetables, and lemons on the side. The couple ignores the vegetables completely as they feed each other lobster and kiss passionately. Hidden at some distance, the mysterious cameraman keeps a close eye on them as the snapshots continue. It seems to be a perfectly romantic day for the lovers; the woman whispers something in the man’s ear, and together, they burst out laughing without a care in the world.
The cameraman stands outside his car, wearing a black baseball cap pulled low to hide his face, even though it’s already quite well hidden by the camera in front of it. He finally lowers the camera, revealing Shawn Abernathy, now with much shorter hair. He’s aged a little in the last seven years, though still very handsome. The passing time has actually added even more rugged beauty to his face.
Shawn gets in his car, takes off the baseball cap, and picks up a pair of binoculars. He intently watches the couple a moment longer, squints at his smartwatch, and with a somber expression begins writing on a small notepad.
•••
The evening slowly approaches in a neighborhood in North Hollywood, California. It’s fairly quiet and calm, as most people are still at work. Soon, the roads will be filled with hordes winding down their day’s work and leaving to enjoy an evening of either partying, a peaceful dinner with their families, or just personal solitude. In this eclectic neighborhood that’s a fun place to visit, one building stands out among all the rest: a modest, two-story office building of simple and elegant design. As the sun falls and automated streetlamps start to illuminate, the sign on top of the building becomes visible. It reads Abernathy Investigative Services.
The first floor consists of a small, unoccupied reception area with a large front desk. A graceful staircase leads up to the second floor. There’s a bare minimum of furniture there, artfully chosen to give the entire place a clean look. Because the furniture is limited, the space looks larger and airier than it really is. This glimpse of Shawn’s sophisticated office space makes it clear that the passing years have brought a great change in him; he has grown up quite a lot.
In one area, a young woman sits behind a dark-brown desk on a comfortable, black leather chair. The woman has auburn hair down to her shoulders, and her head is bent down as she checks her cell phone. She’s finely dressed in a low-cut, dark-blue, long-sleeve body-con dress, which she has accessorized with big hoop earrings and maroon high heel pumps. She’s a bit overdressed. The woman is Shawn’s secretary, Melody Lurue. She’s twenty-four but has the youthful innocence of a teenager. With her reading glasses and very light lip gloss, if not for the way she’s dressed, she could easily pass for a schoolgirl. Shawn strides by her, lost in deep thought, then stops in his tracks.
“Melody,” he says, surprised. “What are you still doing here?” He looks outside and then adds, “It’s late!”
Melody glances up at her boss and replies, “I’m actually waiting for someone. She should be here any second.”
“Will they be here long?” Shawn asks.
“Nah,” Melody answers. “My girlfriend Mercedes is picking me up. She just texted she’s almost here. We’re going to some new-age club in LA that’s becoming very popular.”
Shawn nods and comments as he starts going through his messages, “I hope you’re not doing any work right now, because it’s past your office hours.”
“Nah,” Melody answers again, shaking her head. “I’m just reading my newsfeeds and other social media posts.”
“Anything interesting?” Shawn asks.
“Well,” Melody begins hesitantly, knowing that Shawn is definitely going to disapprove. “They say that the new Messiah—”
“The new Messiah?!” Shawn asks, stopping her. “Wait, what is it that you’re reading?” He reaches out for her cell phone, and Melody reluctantly hands it over to him and removes her glasses. Shawn looks at it with disdain. The title on her mobile app reads, The New World Order Examiner.
“Why are you reading that trashy app?” he demands, disapproval in his tone.
Melody rolls her eyes. “It’s not all that bad, Shawn,” she says. “Everyone’s using it—worldwide, even. It speaks highly of the new Messiah.”
Shawn shakes his head. Melody is young, and working with her has taught him that although she means well and is a good person, she’s also naïve and easily taken in—but she’s not the only one. As far as most of the world is concerned, the so-called Messiah has put an end to nuclear weapons, starvation, and he also created world peace with his one-nation, one-world government concept.
Trying to keep his disgust out of his voice, Shawn says, “Melody, he’s not the Messiah.”
“Then who is he?” Melody asks, her brown eyes meeting his directly.
Shawn sighs. He knows that it will be pretty difficult to explain, and there’s a high probability she might not believe him. After all, he has no proof to back up his claim, and he could very easily be countered because his secretary is right: the Messiah is making the world a better place to live in. But this is precisely where the main deception lies.
He studies Melody, wondering whether to get into it with her or not. He decides to go for it; the more people who see the truth, the better. He begins, “This new Messiah that the world is going crazy over, well, he . . . he’s what the Bible defines as the Antichrist.”
Melody stares at him, and Shawn answers her confused look with just three words: “Son of Satan!”
Shock is written all over Melody’s face as she rolls her chair backward. For several seconds, she stares at her boss, not knowing what to say. She has always respected Shawn because she can appreciate his brilliance. During the three years she has worked with him, he hasn’t been wrong about much. However, this makes no sense to her, and she wonders whether Shawn is finally losing it, even though he’s not that old.
“Well, everyone seems to believe he’s the Messiah,” she finally says, “and until someone or something proves otherwise, more and more people are going to believe the same.”
The two don’t notice another woman silently entering the office. This woman is tall, with very short black hair, streaked red. She’s dressed in a stunning, bright-red dress and shiny black heels. Her red lips curve in a cruel sneer. The woman is Melody’s friend Mercedes.
“Why do you have to believe what everyone else does?” Shawn questions. “Why don’t you try looking for your own answers?”
“I am looking, Shawn,” she answers. “I’m looking at the world and how it’s already changing for the better. How can a false Messiah do all of this? Why would he?”
“Precisely so he can deceive you and the rest of the world,” Shawn answers, getting exasperated despite his resolve to remain calm. “Remember, appearances can be deceiving!”
Melody looks intently at Shawn, and from her softening brow, he can tell that she’s beginning to take his words seriously. But before Shawn can continue, Mercedes clears her throat loudly and begins to tap her foot. Melody stands and grabs her purse, looking apologetic, even though Mercedes is the one who is late. Before she’s through the door, Shawn yells after her, “Melody, you’re making a big mistake!”
She stops in her tracks and whirls around. “What about all the so-called men, women, and children of God that just up and disappeared? Why did they abandon all their friends and family with all the destruction that was going on?”
Shawn answers pleadingly, almost begging her to understand, “It’s what the Bible calls the Rapture. They’re all in heaven with God and Jesus Christ. They’re not living on some secret, mysterious island in the Pacific or on another planet after being abducted by aliens like everyone is saying!”
Melody still seems hesitant. “I don’t know, Shawn. Everyone believes the Messiah is right here on earth, turning the world around, performing miracles every day!” She looks down for a moment, thinking, then looks up and asks, “Shawn, please don’t take this the wrong way, but why do you think you, Sylvia, and Alyson, like so many other believers who identify as Christians, weren’t also taken to heaven, as you say, but simply left behind?”
“I’m not sure, Melody. Sylvia and I think and talk about it all the time. We conclude that we may have unfinished business, that God wants us right here where we are, possibly to educate and counsel those that seek answers and comfort for what’s to come. I suppose, on the other hand, personally, we all have more work to do, and we’re just not prepared yet. When it’s our time, we’ll be the first ones to know, and at that point, I don’t think anyone will be so concerned with why we didn’t make the first cut.”
Melody gently smiles, then turns to Mercedes for support; it’s evident now that she has just been repeating Mercedes’s words. Instead of backing her up, Mercedes simply says, “Melody, we better get going. Not everyone always gets in, unfortunately.”
As the two women reach the door, Shawn calls from behind, “You guys, be careful out there. A Friday night out in LA is far from what it used to be.”
“You do the same, Shawn,” Melody replies. Then she remembers something and rapidly adds, “Oh yeah, Shawn, Clarence Monet called—the screenwriter? He wants to see those surveillance photos as soon as possible. And your wife called as well.”
Shawn looks through his messages and finds the number for Mr. Monet. “Thanks,” he says. “I’ll call them right now. Lock the door on your way out.”
The women leave and Shawn walks to his office.
Outside the building, night has fallen. Melody and Mercedes saunter toward a candy-apple-red Lexus sports car in the parking lot.
Mercedes asks, concerned, “What was that all about?”
Melody takes a deep breath and says, “He’s just worried about me reading the New World Order Examiner. I guess he’s suspicious of their philosophies.”
Mercedes scowls. “Why are people like that? I mean, why are they blind to all the great changes taking place all over the world? The New World Order has an awful lot to offer people like us! I had a crappy life before, during, and after my divorce. It was a struggle and pure hell, but now I have a brand-new car, an amazing condo that’s paid in full. A nurse’s salary only goes so far, Mel!”
Mercedes reaches into her purse and holds up a black titanium card. “With my New World Order card, I can buy anything I want! Everyone’s getting it!” she says excitedly, sounding a bit like an advertisement. She looks at Melody and asks, “You didn’t forget to bring yours, did you?”
Melody contemplates Shawn’s reaction. The idea of one religion, one nation, with one worldwide time zone, one leader, one cryptocurrency, all tied to the NWO card—which makes money, especially for Christians, basically obsolete—sounds like the beginnings of a utopia, but Shawn makes her doubt her own thoughts.
“No,” she says, “I didn’t forget, even though I’ve never used it. But do you think we’re doing the right thing? Shawn says—”
“Shawn is full of it,” Mercedes says with passion. She puts her card away and gestures at her car, which looks beautiful against the night. “If this is what they call being wrong, I don’t wanna be right,” she finishes, flashing her brilliant, pearly-white teeth in a smile.
“Yeah, I hear ya,” Melody says. “Let’s get going. It’s getting late.”
They get into the car and pull out of the parking space. Neither see the angel seated on the rear bumper, wearing a solemn expression. Before the car drives off into the night, the halo surrounding the angel lights up Mercedes’s personalized license plate: say-10-lvr.
•••
Back inside Abernathy Investigative Services, Shawn sits at his desk, fighting late-night fatigue. He’s on the phone and shuffling through eight-by-ten black-and-white photos he’s pulled out of a large manila envelope.
“Yes, Mr. Monet, they came out pretty good. I’ll bring them by tomorrow. Talk to you then.” He hangs up and looks at his smartwatch. Shawn is about to get up and go home when he remembers to call his wife. He smiles despite his exhaustion as he dials. When there’s no answer, he redials, meanwhile stashing the photos in his briefcase and unfastening the top button on his shirt.
“Hi, Shawn,” Sylvia finally says.
“Hi. You called?”
“Yes, and I texted you also. I just wanted to know if you’d like meatloaf for dinner.”
Shawn smiles again. He loves that Sylvia still asks him what he wants to eat for dinner when she’s cooking.
“Sorry I missed your text, but it’s been a hectic day. Meatloaf is fine,” he answers. “I should be home shortly.”
“Great!” Sylvia answers. “We’re waiting. And, Shawn, I love you!”
