Temptation: The Aftermath

by Victoria Christopher Murray

  Hosea had to pause for longer than a moment with all of the hallelujahs that were shouted.

  When the congregation returned to their seats, he continued,” What’s going on here in this place, on this earth, is preparation for the real game, the everlasting one and so sometimes, I have to wonder if these bad things are not really good things.”

  “Preach!”

  “Maybe these bad things are good things because they build our faith for what is to come.”

  “Tell it, Pastor.”

  “These bad things awaken us to God when you think about it. Sometimes that’s the only time when we truly depend on Him.

  It’s when we have no choice, that He becomes number one. It shouldn’t be that way, but ….”

  I lowered my head and thought about my own faith. I had always been a talk-to-God-every-day kind of girl. But there was something to be said about struggles. Because those were the times when I didn’t talk, I cried out. Those were the times when I didn’t walk to the altar, I ran. Those were the times when I went to that prayer closet and settled in.

  Hosea said, “But the real answer to our question about why bad things happen to good people … I think God would say, it’s none of our business.”

  The congregation chuckled.

  Hosea said, “I’m serious. Because what happens to us here on earth is all up to God.” He held up his hands.“Now, I’m not saying that the bad things are all God’s will. Nothing irks me more than when Christians blame all of this stuff on God saying — it’s His will, He’s in control.”

  “You better preach that word!”

  Hosea said, “He is in control, but He will give us what we ask for. If all of this was God’s will, then we wouldn’t have to pray for His will to be done.”

  “Amen!”

  “So don’t get it twisted; everything in this world isn’t happening the way God wants it to. He allows it, but it’s not always going the way He wants it. If that were the case, we could all sit back every day, not work and just tell the bill collectors, ‘Hey, this is God’s will. Deal with it.’”

  Even I had to laugh at that and I sat up in my seat. I’d only seen Hosea Bush on television a few times, and never for a full sermon. But now, my plan was to watch him every Sunday, before we left for our own church. Because though, Pastor Ford would always be the best spiritual teacher to me, Pastor Bush was sure up there, too. I loved his voice, his tone, his cadence. I loved the way he sang some of his words and the way his hands were the punctuation for his words.

  “But seriously,” his voice came down a couple of decibels, so low that I imagined the people behind us leaning forward to hear him better. “I get the question, I understand why I hear it so often. But instead of asking why things happen, I go with: how can I use this to make my faith and other’s faith stronger? What can I learn, and how can I turn this test into my testimony?”

  I expected the sanctuary to ring out once again with shouts, but it was quiet, as if the people followed their pastor. His voice was low and I guess everyone understood that meant they should be quiet, too.

  Folding my hands, I lowered my head, thinking about his words – test into testimony. To this point, the biggest test I’d had in my life was what happened with Jefferson and Jasmine. I hated that the memory of that time had been dug up and felt almost as fresh as October of 1997.

  But Jefferson and I had done just what Hosea said. We’d turned that test into a testimony. We’d stood up with Pastor Ford and testified about the snake who’d slept with my husband.

  As I had that thought, Jasmine reached for me. She was facing forward, her eyes on her husband, but still she held my hand and then squeezed it, making me feel all kinds of guilty about just having called her a snake.

  But I kept my head lowered because I wanted to reflect on Hosea’s teaching. And what Nicole had tried to teach me, too. I was battling with my unforgiveness and I didn’t want to fight this war anymore. I really needed to pray because with what I’d been holding onto for twenty years, the only way to get it out of my heart was through prayer.

  I didn’t know how long I was in my meditation, but suddenly, Jasmine pulled away from me. Looking up, I leaned forward a little, to see a woman kneeling in the aisle next to Jasmine. They whispered back and forth, only for a couple of seconds before the woman handed Jasmine an oversized yellow envelope.

  Even though I was sitting on the side of her, I saw Jasmine’s frown. She waited a beat, opened the envelope, then slipped something out. Because of the angle, I couldn’t see what it was — a picture? Maybe?

  Jasmine gasped and stuffed whatever she’d taken out back into the envelope. She was trembling when she laid it across her lap, though she grasped it as if it held the winning lottery ticket.

  I’d seen that look on Jasmine’s face before — when she was talking to that woman in the hall. Complete mortification. Like before, if Jasmine were not black, she’d be totally white right now.

  “What wrong?” I whispered.

  She shook her head and when she finally looked at me, there were tears in her eyes.

  “Jasmine?”

  She said nothing, just slipped out of her seat, and almost ran up the aisle. I wasn’t the only one who followed her with my eyes. Everyone behind me did, too. When I finally turned back to the front of the sanctuary, Hosea stood at the altar with the deepest of frowns on his face. It felt like the sanctuary was filled with the same question — what had just happened?

  I had no answer to that question, but what I had were flutters, inside. I felt squeamish, a foreboding, like something really bad was about to happen. Was that because of Jasmine … or Jefferson? What was God trying to tell me?

  Closing my eyes, I went straight into prayer: Please, Lord.

  Please, Lord. Please, Lord.

  But no matter how much I prayed, it didn’t stop the sickening feeling that had spread inside of me.

  chapter 25

  Jasmine

  How long had it been? An hour? Maybe two.

  I wasn’t sure because all I had done from the moment I ran from the sanctuary and into my office, to grab my purse, before

  I hailed a cab (I couldn’t even wait for an Uber) was stare at these photos.

  I stared at them while I was in the cab: Jefferson (with his wedding ring in view) holding Lola in his arms.

  I stared at them while I was on the elevator: Lola with her mouth all over Jefferson (with his wedding ring in view).

  I stared at them while I sat in my office: Jefferson (with his wedding ring in view) with his mouth all over Lola.

  That was all that I’d done — just stared at these five pictures – eight by ten glossy photos. And every one showed Lola and Jefferson in their natural glory. They were butt-bare; nothing covered them at all.

  I’d stared at the pictures, checking for any sign of photoshopping, or any indication that maybe Jefferson hadn’t been conscious. But while his eyes were closed in some of the photos, they were open in others. He was aware, and that meant these photos were real.

  Looking up, I whispered, “Oh, God,” and I said that not for the first time.

  That call out to the Lord came from so many places. Yes, these pictures, but also from the place where I now knew that I’d been so wrong.

  When I’d left Lola’s apartment on Sunday, I’d done a complete analysis. While Hosea and the kids were at the park, I’d sat down and thought the whole conversation with Lola through. In the end, I’d come to one conclusion: though she’d been cool and thorough, she was a liar. I knew that because of one thing she’d said:

  He promised me that I would be his next wife ….

  Even now, just remembering, I shook my head. Everything else she’d said could have been the truth, but not that. That was why I was a non-believer. Because ninety-nine percent truth was still one-hundred percent a lie.

  But these pictures showed that my equation was wrong.

  I slammed my fist atop the pictures, not really sure who
I was more angered by. Jefferson: because in all the years that I’d been married, I’d never cheated and I was sure Jefferson was a better man than I was a woman.

  Lola: because that trick knew Jefferson was married.

  Or me: because how could I have the audacity to call her a trick when I’d done the same thing with the same man?

  Pushing myself away from the desk, I staggered to my favorite spot — the window. The night’s blackness blanketed Central Park, though even if there had been light, I wouldn’t have seen anything. Because I was obsessed with my thoughts. How could I have been so wrong after I’d been so sure that I was so right? Especially once the twenty-four hours that she had given me had ticked by and then ticked on.

  Not a thing had happened yesterday when I’d called her bluff, though I hadn’t taken any chances. I’d spent all day at the hospital with Kyla and Nicole, pretending to be there in Hosea’s place — though, that part was true. My husband had a gig in New Jersey, so, I’d gone to the hospital to do what Hosea would normally do — to pray with Kyla and Nicole. And then, I did what I do — I stayed to block that heifer. Because if Lola had shown up at any time and any kind of way, the only blessing for her would have been that she was already at the hospital.

  Being there, I’d protected Kyla in two ways: I blocked Lola from getting to her and I didn’t have to go and talk to Detective Green like Hosea had asked me to.

  But not understanding my mission, Kyla had eyed me with suspicion the whole day, though Nicole didn’t seem to notice my attempt to be omnipresent. She was thrilled to have me there.

  I’d stayed focused on my goal, though, my eyes on the door, on the elevator, on the hall. I’d stayed until I walked out of the hospital with Kyla and Nicole. It was well past ten and well past Lola’s twenty-four hour threat of doom.

  The victory was mine.

  But tonight I discovered that I hadn’t won a thing. Lola Lewis played a major game of poker and she had the winning hand. Five pictures — a royal flush.

  Her story wasn’t a story. Her story was the truth.

  “Damn, Jefferson,” I whispered. “I just never thought ….”

  Not for the first time tonight, or today, or this week, month or year, I lifted my eyes to the heavens and said, “God, thank you so much for the blessing of Hosea Samuel Bush.”

  But though usually speaking my husband’s name made my heart swell with love, right now, it ached with pain. This was going to kill Kyla. That was a fact. This was going to end their marriage. Another fact. Because once Kyla found out about Lola, there was a good chance that she’d leave Jefferson right there at Harlem Hospital. She might tell the doctors to never wake him up. Hell, she might pull a plug or two herself.

  “No, that would be me,” I said, then chuckled (though it was bitterly) as I realized that I was having a full-out conversation with myself.

  Still, it was the truth; Kyla would walk away, she would just do it would grace. Because she’d given Jefferson his one chance already and he’d blown that one chance with me.

  The thought of that brought tears to my eyes again and I wondered, not for the first time, why I cared so much. And then, I asked, why wouldn’t I care?

  I had always loved Kyla and what I realized since I’d seen the report of the Jefferson’s shooting was that I’d never stopped loving her. Yes, we’d been estranged, but that hadn’t changed the soul connection that we’d had since we were five. Kyla Carrington Blake had never done a single bad thing to me, so why would I ever be angry with her? What kind of grudge could I hold? Based on what?

  And with all of that, why wouldn’t I want to help the woman whose only crime had been excommunicating me from her life because of my sin?

  Returning to the desk, I picked up the one picture that had carried a message beyond the photo. Lola had sent me a note … written in lipstick … on the photo that was the most explicit … her mouth filled with Jefferson’s ….

  I closed my eyes, but the image and the words she’d written were etched behind my lids:

  Your twenty four hours has passed. As a favor, I’ll start the clock again. NOW!

  Those fourteen words could send Lola to prison for twenty years. But while Lola would suffer those years beyond bars, Kyla would be sentenced to a lifetime of misery.

  The beep of the alarm startled me and I froze for just a second. The front door. Hosea. Normally, my husband would go into the children’s rooms first before he searched the apartment for me. But with the way I’d left the church, his mission would be singular tonight — to find me. Once he didn’t see the light in our bedroom, he would come into our office.

  I stuffed the photos back into the envelope, then pushed it under a stack of papers. Then, I counted down the seconds and right when I got to ‘one’, Hosea stepped into the space where I’d been for the last hours.

  He stared, studying me as I stood behind the desk. His eyes were filled with concern and I wondered if he saw the sorrow in mine.

  “I got your text,” he said.

  I nodded. I’d texted him from the cab: I have to go home, no worries, the kids are fine. “I’m sorry I had to leave.”

  It was like he never blinked as he moved toward me. And I kept my gaze on him.

  When we were just inches apart, he cupped my face in his hands. He stared like he could see through me, then he kissed my forehead. “Talk to me.”

  There were so many reasons to tell him everything and only one reason not to. And that single reason outweighed all the others — he would make me go to the police. Because he would want Lola to be arrested and he would say that Kyla and Jefferson would work this out, that they would recover from this.

  The thing was, I knew for sure that they would not. It still stunned me sometimes that they’d recovered twenty years ago.

  “Jasmine.”

  Code for: Don’t lie.

  I told my husband the only thing that I could. I said, “I can’t tell you.”

  His concern faded and in its place was surprise. “What?” he asked, though he still held me.

  “I can’t tell you,” I repeated, this time with more conviction. “Really, Hosea, I don’t want to lie to you. I don’t. But if you force me to say anything about this … it will be a lie.”

  He stood still, just staring, taking in my words.

  “This is something I have to handle,” I told him.“It’s something I have to do … by myself.”

  After a moment, he nodded, then took my hand and led me to the sofa across the room. We both sat, on the edge, our hands folded in front of us. As he looked down at his hands, I studied him. In all the years of our marriage, I’d never said anything like this. Usually, I would just lie. But I didn’t want to this time.

  Finally, he cocked his head toward me. “Does this have anything to do with the children? Are they in any kind of danger?”

  “No! Of course not.” I rested my hand on his shoulder.

  He nodded again.“Does this have anything to do with you? Are you in danger?”

  This time, I took his hands into mine. “No. I’m not. I’m not in any danger at all. I … I just have to do something for a friend.”

  Again, he nodded. “It’s not Mae Frances, is it?” He didn’t give me a chance to say a word. “Because she’s not a friend, she’s family. And if she’s in any danger ….”

  “It’s not Mae Frances, but really, if it were, do you think she would need you with all the people she knows?”

  He smiled, exactly the way I’d wanted him to.

  “No one is in danger, Hosea. If I thought anyone could be hurt physically, I would tell you for sure.”

  He waited a moment before he said, “Physically.” A pause. “But someone … that you care about … could be hurt in another way.”

  It wasn’t a question, but still I said, “Yes.”

  He nodded and that was when I knew he understood. He said, “There are ways to hurt people that cut deeper than any physical pain.”

  “I know.”
I squeezed his hands in mine. “This is why I have to do what I have to do.”

  I could feel his thoughts, his concern in all the moments he let go by. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” and I left it right there.

  My husband must have received the message because he didn’t ask another question. I guess he knew this was where I got off the truth train and my lies would begin.

  He leaned back and pulled me into his arms and held me for a while before he said, “I’m glad that you and the kids are safe. That’s all that matters to me.”

  I stayed silent because I’d told all the truth that I could.

  He said, “Just promise me that if what you’re handling, if that block gets too hot, you’ll come to me.”

  I nodded, but he leaned away and twisted my body so that I had to look up at him. “Promise me, Jasmine.”

  Code for: I’m serious.

  Hosea looked at me the way the flight attendants did when I sat in the Exit row on an airplane. They wanted a verbal agreement and so did my husband. “Yes,” I said. “I promise.”

  He stared into my eyes and I didn’t break away. That was my way of sealing my words.

  When he was satisfied that I’d told the truth to this point, he leaned back once again and just held me.

  And I wanted to cry. Because I had it so good with this man and my gratefulness stretched beyond the heavens. What I had, I knew Kyla and Jefferson had too — at least they once had this and I wanted them to have this again.

  Maybe Jefferson’s sudden brush with death would change him. Maybe he would leave Lola … and any other woman in his life … alone. Maybe when he awakened, he’d be so grateful that he would want only his wife.

  I knew he still loved Kyla; he’d been willing to pay twenty-five thousand dollars to keep his indiscretion hidden from her.

  So that was what I had to do. I had to work to keep this away from Kyla, too, and I knew exactly how.

  I’d never used the money that I’d received from the reality show that I’d done with Rachel back in 2012. That show with First Ladies had turned out to be just another one of those reality shows disasters with women battling each other. The money I’d earned had just been sitting in a mutual fund, earning interest, waiting for a good reason for me to spend it.