Jimmy was going to be powerful. Only power could fight power. Jessica had to become powerful, too.
And she would. She was. Not there yet, but she was moving in that direction. She could feel it. Her bakery was the epicenter of her power, and as soon as it opened …
Well, she wasn’t sure yet what would happen, but something would, and she thought it would be something in her favor. Cash seemed to think so, at least. And Wendy. And all those other people who had contributed so much for it to happen. Deep down, they must’ve known, even if they hadn’t heard Wendy spell it out.
It had all come together. Sure, her best friend wasn’t talking to her, and she hadn’t had a conversation with Chris that lasted more than an hour in months, and sure, she was unofficially indebted to a lot of good people and officially indebted to Mrs. Thomas. But it still felt good to build something, and assuming the NFL draft went well, she might shift some of that indebtedness away from all the sundry sources and squarely onto Chris. And being indebted to Chris felt almost natural. Or rather, it felt safer. Indebtedness was vulnerability, and she’d practiced the latter with him countless times and in countless sexy ways.
Would she marry him? Why not? Who else would she marry? Who else would marry her?
No, that isn’t a good reason.
She zipped up her suitcase.
I’ll come back to the marriage thing. There’s no hurry. If Chris was still around after months of neglect while she’d started the business and they’d lived thirty minutes apart, he would be there when she finally made up her mind about marriage. He deserved to marry someone who was sure she wanted to marry him, anyway. She only had his best interest in mind, really.
She lugged the suitcase off the bed and rolled it across the kitchen and to the front door. “Hey, can I see that?” she said.
Glancing up, Destinee closed the book and held it out to her.
Jessica took it, spared one last look at the cover with Jessica Christ emblazoned across it, then opened the book and began tearing out clumps of pages, setting each one down on the island in a small stack. When she was done, she tossed the hollow hardcover into the recycling bin. “There. Problem solved.”
Destinee, who’d cautiously stood when the tearing began, looked from Jessica to the stack of papers to the recycling bin and back to Jessica. “What problem?”
“The toilet paper problem. This should last you till I get back.” She patted the papers. “Now let’s get going so I don’t miss my first flight.”
Excerpt from Railed to the Cross
Two summers flew by in Carson City. My life required little speaking, discouraged it, actually, and I was, on the whole, content in my work. The hours outside graves, though, began to wear on me. And my need to follow a great man of God steadily swallowed up my waking moments on the weekends. Eventually, the need overtook my weekdays, too, once I’d finished my work and emerged from the safe earth. Nightmares often colored my sleep, startling me awake in cold sweats. Mostly they were of Joel, his shriveled body, his gaunt, pocked face as he asked me why I left him there in the desert all on his own. I longed for the time when my nightmares predominantly revolved around watching Gustav clutch his chest in the rain, mud soaking his clothes as he thrashed around, begging for my mercy.
When Reverend Joel appeared in my dreams for the seventh day in a row one August, twelve years after his death, I could take no more. I dressed in the small room I rented from an old lady who seemed intent on making pies with rotten fruit, grabbed my water jug that I took with me to work every day and a large black trash bag, and set out in search of the spot where I’d left the reverend over a decade past. I could make things right. I had the means. If I could find the trailer, perhaps I could gather his bones and slip them into a grave at St. Anthony’s without a soul knowing. Perhaps then I could bring him peace and in doing so, provide the same for myself.
My recollection was foggy on where I might find him, but I walked in the tepid night air northeast until I found the train tracks. So long as I followed them northwest, away from Las Vegas and toward Reno, I might start to see familiar landmarks. Then I could follow those landmarks until I broke a new horizon and, if all went according to my plan, find what remained of Joel’s tomb.
However, in the desert, most everything looks the same. So I began doubting my plan that had seemed foolproof only hours before, once I hopped the first train heading in the desired direction.
The morning sun beat down on the boxcar, turning it into a microwave despite the cross breeze of the open doors, and when I first saw the smoke in the distance, I wondered if it were really there or if I were hallucinating from the heat.
Deep within my bones, I could feel it. This was a sign from God. It was just like Joel had taught me. And of course, this was how I would find my way to the man who navigated his life by following such soulful indicators.
I grabbed my jug, which was almost empty, and the garbage bag, then leaped off the train before I could think twice. I hit the ground and rolled, a practiced maneuver, and dusted myself off. I can’t explain with words how I knew to follow the smoke, only that every fiber of my corporal form told me to go. Whatever was causing the smoke was beyond the horizon, which meant I had miles to go before I would arrive there. And then there would be miles back. I wasn’t sure how I would manage with so little water, but I didn’t let it concern me. If a man dies following signs from the creator, a man dies in the best way possible. But if it wasn’t my time to die, God would provide a way. My faith, the very one Joel had instilled in me through dishonest means, carried me forward over the dry landscape. One foot in front of the other, I headed toward the promise God had made when He filled me with so much holy spirit that I had no choice but to leap from that moving train.
The sun was on its descent toward the Pacific and the smoke was thin by the time the source was visible to me.
Little remained of the structure, but I knew it by heart. It was as I’d hoped. Joel’s trailer.
The reverend’s words returned to me as I slowed to a halt ten yards from the burning box. Moses didn’t know to look for a burning bush, but he knew the sign when he saw it. I didn’t know to look for a burning trailer, but I also knew the sign when I saw it. And after all these years, for the fire to erupt the same day my conscience got the best of me, compelled me to leave the modest comfort of my bed and drove me here—God’s hand in this could not have been any plainer. Perhaps Joel hadn’t performed a single provable miracle in his life, but God had no qualms being indelicate when He needed to. And it seemed that with me, He needed to.
I understood now. By returning to Joel’s final resting place, now armed with the knowledge of how rare of a man he was, his purpose was complete. I’d learned his lesson, though it took a dozen years. And now God thrust His cleansing upon the man, for his work was done. Joel was purified and forgiven by those flames; I understood that in my soul.
My shepherd was gone. It had taken me twelve long years to confront that truth, but here it was. I was a John with no Jesus. Or if it was as Demarcus said, Joel had been my John, and now that he was gone, having wasted away in close confinement like John the Baptist had, it was my turn to lead.
That was it, then. I didn’t need another leader. I needed to become the leader. It was time to stop suppressing my own greatness, passing the years in graves. And while I didn’t feel ready, it looked like God left me no other option.
“Fine,” I yelled at the smoldering trailer, “I’ll do it. But I don’t know how. Please give me a sign now!”
I waited but nothing happened, and the flames began to die in front of me while I watched, embers dancing spirals toward the sky, turning to ash then blowing away in the breeze.
The sun set, and I waited, sitting on the hot, arid ground as I finished the last drop of my water. Would God let me die out here? The idea of it so close to my realization seemed perverse and unholy. God wouldn’t orchestrate something so morose.
The sun lit the western
horizon in a crimson blaze by the time the rubble of the trailer had stopped glowing hot. It smoked, but I could approach safely. I circled to the back where the window once was. Melted and warped metal crosses poked out of the ashes at awkward angles. I located where the bed would have been then poked through the soot with the toe of my boot, looking for his bones.
But I could find nothing.
Much could have happened between when I left the trailer and when I returned, but the lack of his bones disturbed me and I continued my search for the next hour but to no avail. Where could they be? I had failed in my mission by waiting so long to return. I couldn’t collect his remains and properly bury them. I’d ridden all this way for nothing. I’d failed him. Again.
What was next? Where did I go from here? Had I ever felt so forsaken? I think not. The despair consumed me like the fire had consumed Joel’s tomb.
I fell to my knees, but still, no tears would come. Agony, though, was plentiful, and as it took root in my gut and crawled upward to wrap around my lungs and heart, I turned my eyes toward the heavens, crying out an incoherent plea. I stared up at the sun in the west and spotted a flock of birds heading my way from the direction of Lake Tahoe. Had birds carried off his bones?
It was while I considered this possibility that I felt something land on my right shoulder, and when I looked down, I discovered, with some manic glee, that a bird had shat on me as the flock passed overhead. I quickly returned my gaze skyward to see what direction they were headed.
Southeast.
The reverend, a master of godly interpretation, a heavenly antenna for divine signs, had himself become a sign. He no longer remained here, and neither should I.
For God’s plan had not ended, and while it’s possible I had strayed from the path, He had led me back.
Deus Aper had not forsaken me after all.
Had a man ever been so blessed? In my darkest hour, a flock of birds appeared. The Lord, in His infinite wisdom, had known I would need an obvious signal, and so it was that He provided such.
I set off on foot immediately southeast, following the path God’s winged messengers had so blatantly indicated.
Chapter Twenty-Four
In the high-end hotel suite, Chris’s confident composure was wearing thin as he stared at himself in the full-length mirror. Only a moment earlier, he’d tried to put his left shoe on his right foot three times before Jessica stepped in and helped. As he fumbled with his tie, tension pursed his lips and his cheeks flushed. His mother stepped in then, trying and failing twice herself, clearly as nervous as her son about the evening’s event. As mother and son began to fuss at each other over the matter, Jessica resorted to calling Coach Brown two rooms over to come help.
Chris’s college coach had been through all this before with previous players, and while Jessica suspected his calm demeanor was not entirely representative of his emotional state, his quiet composure was exactly what Chris needed to steady himself.
“You may not be picked in the first round, Riley,” he said, “but you’ll be picked. The Cowboys want you bad. Their current quarterback is unbelievably accident prone, and their backup can hardly tie his own shoes. You saw both of those things for yourself in the divisional playoff game. As long as the Texans don’t scoop you up, you’ll be right where you want to be.”
“And the Texans aren’t a bad place to be either,” Jessica reminded. “Houston’s actually closer than Dallas.”
Coach Brown shot her sharp side-eye. “More importantly, both teams are set up perfectly for a rookie quarterback. The offensive lines are solid, and it would be a great place for you to settle in and make a name for yourself before you’re traded.”
“One thing at a time,” Jessica said. “Let’s just focus on the next four years before we talk about him being traded somewhere across the country.” She inserted herself between Chris and Coach Brown, straightening Chris’s tie unnecessarily and giving him a quick, chaste kiss on the cheek, aware that Mrs. Riley wasn’t as loosey-goosey about PDA as Destinee.
“We should get going,” Coach Brown said. “Takes quite a bit of time to make it through the media circus to our table.”
Jessica pulled out her phone. “I’ll let Quentin and Rex know to meet us downstairs.”
While exploring Chicago all week—and indeed, leaving Texas for the first time in her life—had been better than she could have imagined, spending time with Quentin without Miranda felt strange and wrong. But Jessica knew she had to get used to this new reality. She couldn’t blame Miranda, but she also felt terrible for Quentin. And for herself.
During the past two evenings, when Chris was asked to attend sponsored parties solo, leaving Quentin and Jessica to entertain themselves around the Loop, never once had Quentin blamed her or Chris for what had happened. He didn’t even blame Miranda. And that was somehow worse, knowing he only blamed himself.
Granted, it was his fault. But she also understood why he would want Miranda to think he was just a regular human. After all, he didn’t choose to be an angel. Though at the same time, Miranda had the right to choose a normal life with a normal human.
She’d tried to apologize for her role in outing him, or rather, preventing Dr. Bell from outing him, as they sat at the hotel bar one night, but he wouldn’t hear it. All those hours of planning just what she would say were for naught. He wouldn’t let her get more than five words of her apology out before he swiftly shut her down with, “If you’re my friend, you’ll knock that shit off right now.”
So she knocked the shit off right then, aware that Quentin had just out-friended her, just like Miranda always did.
As she and Chris made their way down the escalator to the lobby, he leaned close and whispered, “You look incredible tonight, Jess. I can’t wait till we get through this and I can have some alone time with you.”
She swatted his hand away from her butt. “And how exactly are you going to pull that off, since you’re sharing a room with your mom?”
“You’re not. You have your own room. I can come over there.”
“You don’t think your mom would notice you weren’t in the twin next to her? Please. We’ll just meet up in our dreams.”
“But what if I moan in my sleep?”
Quentin and Rex waved from a couch in the lobby.
“Head in the game, Riley,” she said before walking over to meet the others.
The hired car fit all six of Chris and his entourage, and Jessica indulged herself in how nice it was not being the center of attention for once. Luxurious.
At least, until they arrived at Grant Park. Apparently, the reporters hadn’t gotten the memo that Jessica wasn’t the main event.
Chris kept his arm around her waist as he led her down the red carpet toward the tables, and she pointedly ignored phrases like, “Messiah from Texas” and “World record holder for longest field goal.” It’d been so long since she’d given up her football days, she’d forgotten she had a legacy of her own with this crowd.
A female reporter leaned past the ropes, holding out her microphone so that it almost clotheslined Chris. “Are you entering the draft, Ms. McCloud?”
“Hell no,” she said on impulse, and Chris pushed the microphone out of his way as they continued.
By the time the usher led them to their table, Jessica was drained and wondered how long this would take. Others were seated around the venue already, but mostly the tables were empty. Jessica and Mrs. Riley sat on either side of Chris, and Quentin took the seat on the other side of Jessica, with the two coaches sitting opposite the prospective rookie. An old-school black telephone was the centerpiece of the round, formally dressed table.
She leaned over to Chris. “Is that for you?”
He nodded quickly, staring reverently at it. “A representative from the team calls the player they want to draft. When that phone rings, you know I’ve been drafted.”
“What if you don’t answer?”
Chris whipped his head around, horror in his ey
es. “You have to answer the phone.”
“No, but I mean, what if you don’t? Like, what if it’s the Browns or something? Can you just say, ‘Sorry, wrong number’?”
Chris shook his head slowly like she’d just blasphemed. “If I don’t answer, I don’t enter into the NFL and my dream withers away. Jessica, when the call comes, I answer it.”
“Okay, okay,” she said, looking around to escape his scornful eyes. “Jesus, I was just asking,” she grumbled.
As the rest of the tables filled over the next half hour and small salads arrived for each guest, Chris and Quentin leaned over Jessica to animatedly gossip about each new face that arrived.
“Did you see Le’davian Davidson?” Quentin rasped at Chris.
“What are you,” Jessica said, “his fangirl or something?”
Quentin turned to her seriously. “Yes. Dude’s a beast. He had fifty-two sacks last season for Notre Dame.”
“Dude, dude, dude!” Chris said, staring just past Quentin’s right arm. “It’s Willie Frank Epstein. Should I go introduce myself to him?”
“What? No way!” Quentin said.
“Yeah, that’s a serial killer name, Chris,” Jessica added. “You should stay away from him.”
They ignored her. “He’s your rival now,” Quentin explained. “Not the time to cozy up to other quarterbacks. Wait until you figure out where you go and where they go, then you can decide who to be friends with. I mean, what if he goes to the Eagles, who we all know desperately need a new QB, safely assuming the current one goes to prison, which he should,”—Chris nodded—“then you go to the Cowboys. You two can’t be friends if you’re in the same division.”
“Especially not if he’s with the Eagles,” Chris said.
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