The Last Sunday (21 page)

“God bless all you brothers and sisters out there in radio land,” was the preacher's greeting, delivered with a thick Southern drawl. “Today's sermon is entitled ‘God Doesn't Play by Our Rules.'”

Hattie reached for her Bible on the counter and read silently as the preacher preached on.

“Now, I know many of you think you know God's will for your life. Well, I'm here to tell you this morning that you are probably wrong. God's will and His plans are so far beyond our understanding that it is only an arrogant man who thinks he knows what God plans to do with his life. I'm encouraging you this morning not to be that man. Don't try to figure out what God wants you to do. You'll never figure it out. All we need to do as believers is do what we believe is the right thing. Never mind what others tell you to do. Ignore what we preachers tell you to do, because contrary to what we been telling you all these years, none of us ain't got no special pipeline to God.

“Stop being a fool and start listening to your own heart. Stop allowing these self-proclaimed prophets, preachers, and so-called men of God to tell you what God's plan is for your life. You know what the right thing to do is. Always listen to your heart and stop waiting for someone else to tell you. That's why black folk ain't much farther ahead today than we could be. We always waiting for Sunday morning to come for somebody else to tell us what to do, what to believe, and what to say. If you don't hear anything else I've said this morning, please hear this. If a preacher tells you they have a special message for you from God, pick up your purse and check your pocket to make sure your wallet is still there and tell him, ‘No thank you, sir. If God has a message for me, He'll tell me Himself.' Believe me, if you will stop and be still for a moment and listen to your heart, you'll hear clearly what it is God wants you to do.”

Hattie froze when she heard the words. They reverberated in her head like the toll of a bell in a church steeple. Hattie looked out her kitchen window. She was strangely comforted as she slowly came to the realization that what the old Southern preacher had said was true and that his words served as a reminder of truths that she already knew.

As she eased into a sense of peace and clarity, something that had eluded her for weeks, the kitchen window slowly filled with a thick fog. Hattie rested her hand on the open Bible and calmly waited for what was to come.

Her wait was brief. Gideon Truman appeared in a flash. He was standing on the edge of a cliff. She could see a tempestuous ocean slamming against a floor of jagged rocks below. The wind was blowing, and the sky was filled with ominous clouds that floated quickly by. Gideon had his back to her, and he was looking off into the distance. His jacket was billowing in the wind as he took a series of steps backward, away from the cliff.

Suddenly a hand appeared on his shoulder and stopped him from moving away from the cliff. Hattie could see that he was trying to move away from the dangerous edge, but the hand on his shoulder prevented him from moving farther. The wind seemed to double in strength, and his jacket flapped violently around his torso. The hand then began to guide him back toward the cliff.

Hattie craned her neck to see who the hand belonged to. The entity's feelings were so well camouflaged that she could not discern who it was or even if it was a man or a woman. Slowly, the owner of the hand came into view. Hattie gasped slightly when she saw it was Samantha. In the past she could always feel Samantha long before she came into view, whether it was in a vision or in real life. Hattie knew this was a sign that Samantha was slowing evolving into an entity whose emotions even she would not be able to read.

The thought frightened Hattie as she continued to watch Samantha guide Gideon back to the cliff's edge. The waves below pounded the rocks and sent plumes of frothy sea mist into the air above their heads. Hattie could smell the ocean in her kitchen. She could hear the screeching cries of the seagulls that flew frantically overhead as the inevitable plunge of Gideon Truman drew near.

Hattie noted that Gideon put up little resistance as Samantha moved him forward. She could feel his fear, but it was not matched by any sign of struggle to save his own life.

Samantha was dressed in white. A white that seemed unearthly and deceptively pure. Her sandal-clad feet barely touched the earth as she glided behind Gideon. There was a comforting air emanating from her. Almost as if she was trying to convince Gideon that jumping was the right thing to do.

Hattie studied the scene more closely than she had ever studied one before. She searched the canvas for any detail that would provide a clue to what her role in it should be. The birds flying overhead, the waves crashing below. The clouds rushing by. Anything. Then, suddenly, she heard the old radio preacher's voice coming from the window. “You know what the right thing to do is. Always listen to your heart and stop waiting for someone else to tell you.”

Hattie sat upright in her chair. She looked questioningly at the radio on the counter behind her and then back at the window. The radio preacher had long since ended his sermon. Now a ragtag choir was struggling through an old-time hymn on the radio.

Samantha moved Gideon steadily forward. By the time Hattie looked back at the window, Gideon's feet were slipping at the edge and he was struggling to remain on the cliff. Samantha was standing an arm's length away. Her raven-black hair was flapping wildly in the now tumultuous wind. The white color seemed to spill off her dress and slowly fill the window. The two figures were soon engulfed in white light from Samantha's dress, and gradually, they disappeared from Hattie's view.

Despite the troubling scene, Hattie was consumed by a sense of calm when it disappeared from her window. She looked down at her cup of black coffee, and the steam still rose up to meet her nose. It was as if time had stood still. Hattie took a sip, and the coffee was still as hot as when she first poured it. Daylight had come, and her vegetable garden was awash in the first muted rays of the morning sun. Stalks of collard greens, the lilting flowers of her foxgloves, the peach tree waiting for its second harvest of the season all seemed to yawn and stretch toward the sun as they readied themselves for a new day and a plentiful bounty.

“Thank you, Lord,” Hattie said as she gently blew into the steaming cup of coffee. “Thank you, Lord, for showing me the answer was always right here in my heart.”

 

 

Yellow crime-scene tape stretched across Gideon's front door. The body had been removed, and a police officer was posted on the porch. News crews lined the winding street that led to his home. Reporters, who had been told to stay off the property, stood in the street and in neighboring yards, feeding the story to their morning viewers.

“We are coming to you live from in front of the home of CNN reporter Gideon Truman in Hollywood Hills, host of the show
Truman Live,
” said a female field reporter, wearing a cheap blue blazer with running shorts and tennis shoes, as she looked directly into the camera hoisted on the shoulder of a burly cameraman.

“The Los Angeles County Department of the Coroner just removed the body of an unidentified man who, according to the police, was killed in the home of Mr. Truman. No additional details have been provided by the police, but we have been told that the body was not that of Gideon Truman, who we believe is currently in the house.”

The cameraman was very careful to shoot her only from the waist up as she continued. “We also understand that in addition to Mr. Truman, there are apparently two other people in the house at this time. Here's what we know. Neighbors heard gunshots coming from the residence sometime between three o'clock and four o'clock this morning and called the Los Angeles Police Department. According to witnesses, the police arrived and surrounded the property with guns fully drawn.

“For those of you who aren't familiar with Gideon Truman, he is a nationally known reporter and the host of
Truman Live
on CNN. Truman is known for his high-profile stories. For instance, he was the first person to interview Bobby Kristina after the tragic death of her mother, Whitney Houston, and he interviewed Janet Jackson after the death of her brother Michael Jackson.

“As you can see behind me, this narrow street in this exclusive section of Hollywood Hills is filled with reporters from around the world.” The cameraman shifted the lens to show the army of white vans clogging the street, the men and women toting cameras on tripods, and the reporters tripping over themselves to get the best shot of the house.

“I'm Trisha Montoya. We will keep you informed as the details of this shocking story unfold.”

Jasmine sat curled on the couch, under a blanket, while Gideon and Danny escorted the last police officer to the door.

“Mr. Truman, you all might want to stay in the house for a while and not answer your door. There's a crowd of reporters out there, and you are going to be mobbed if you leave anytime soon.”

“Thank you, Officer,” Gideon said. “Is there any way you can ask them to leave?”

“I'm afraid they're not breaking any laws as long as they stay off your property and don't block the road. You're just going to have to wait them out.”

“What's going to happen next?” Danny asked nervously.

“Since in your statements you both say you didn't know the man, we're treating this as a home invasion for now. You had every right to protect yourself in your home, and I seriously doubt the district attorney will pursue this as anything more than a burglary and a justifiable homicide. I know this has been very traumatic for you, so I suggest you maybe speak with a mental health professional to help you put all of this in perspective. If we have any other questions, we, of course, will be in contact with you, and we ask that you not leave the city for a few days, until the investigation is complete. Are you sure we can't give the young lady a ride home? I can arrange to have an officer take her.”

“Thank you, but she said she prefers to stay here until the media has cleared out. We'll make sure she gets home safely. She'll be fine,” Gideon replied.

When the officer left, Gideon and Danny walked side by side back into the living room, where Jasmine was still sitting on the couch.

“Jasmine,” Gideon said in his most fatherly voice, “are you all right? I'll make us all some tea and give you two a few minutes alone.”

As Gideon walked past Jasmine, he placed his hand gently on her shoulder and said, “I'm so sorry you had to go through this, but it's over now and everything will be back to normal for you soon.” Then he left the room.

Danny sat at the opposite end of the couch. “How you doing over there?” he asked her gently. “You had a pretty rough night. Are you okay?”

“I'm fine,” she said without looking at him. “How did you know my father?”

Danny had already decided that the best way to deal with Jasmine was to be direct and honest. He was prepared for her to hate him and call him a liar, but he was also prepared to take that risk.

“Jasmine, there's no easy way to explain this to you other than to tell you the truth. You're old enough to handle it.”

“I'm not a child. I've seen more and done more than you'll probably see and do in a lifetime. I'm a Cleaveland, remember?”

“Yes, I remember.”

“Then tell me what the fuck is going on.”

“Your father and I were lovers.” He paused for her reaction, but there was none, so he continued. “We were together for almost two years before he died. On the day he was killed, he was going to announce to the congregation that he was leaving the church so that he and I could be together.”

“You're lying,” she said calmly. “You're just another opportunist trying to capitalize on his death.”

Danny was prepared for that reaction. He retrieved his laptop from the coffee table and logged into his e-mail account. The series of e-mails from her father was stored in a special file.

“I'm sorry, but I'm not lying to you, Jasmine. I'm also not trying to hurt you or capitalize on his death. I loved you father very much. If you'd like, I can show you some of the e-mails we sent each other.”

Jasmine unfolded her arms from under the blanket, took the laptop, and read the first e-mail from her father to Danny.

E-mail after e-mail spoke of the undeniable bond and love between the two men. As Jasmine read the glowing pages, silent tears fell from her eyes. After reading the fifth e-mail, she closed the laptop and handed it back to Danny. The tears continued to flow as she rested her head on the couch. Danny silently allowed her to process the startling revelation.

Moments passed before Jasmine spoke. “It sounds like he really loved you. Did you love him, or was it his money?”

“That's a fair question. I know a lot of people threw themselves at your father for his money, but I assure you I loved him deeply. He was the most important person in my life. I miss him more than anyone could ever understand.”

“That's where you're wrong,” Jasmine said, wiping a tear from her cheek. “I miss him so much sometimes, I wish I were dead.”

“I know that feeling,” Danny said as his own tears began to flow. “In the days and weeks after it happened, I didn't think I was going to be able to make it. I stayed locked up in my apartment for weeks. I almost lost my job.”