The Turning

by Davis Bunn

  Only not today.

  “Alisha, what’s the matter, sister? Why aren’t you eating?”

  She would like to tell Pastor Terry Reeves that she wasn’t hungry. But she wasn’t going to disgrace herself by telling a lie. She was always hungry. She didn’t understand how other people managed to hold to a diet. She could eat a huge meal and twenty minutes later be hungry again. She was always struggling with her weight, and she was always getting bigger.

  The pastor was a smooth-skinned, handsome man. Some said he was too young to lead a church the size of theirs. But Alisha knew better. He was not just a great preacher. He was also a leader. She had never been more aware of this fact than right here, right now, when he leaned across his wife to ask again, “Are you all right, sister?”

  Alisha knew his wife did not like her. Celeste Reeves thought Alisha was pushy and opinionated. The two women also had a history. Celeste sang in the choir that Alisha led. Celeste had let it be known that she thought she should be in charge there too. Alisha positively lived for that choir, and nobody, not even the pastor’s wife, was going to knock her off that perch. When Celeste had realized she couldn’t take over the adult choir, she started working with children in one of Baltimore’s worst neighborhoods, fashioning them into a choir all her very own. And now the woman wanted to bring them in and join them with Alisha’s group, less than a week before the choir’s biggest event of the year.

  But Alisha couldn’t think about that now. Not and stay focused on what needed doing.

  Alisha rose to her feet. “Excuse me, I’ve just got to go …”

  She didn’t finish the sentence because she didn’t want to be telling anyone exactly what it was that she just had to go do. Because of her girth, she bumped every chair in turn as she made her way off the narrow stage. She heard the stairs creak as she descended, and she saw people stare at her, and she knew they’d be talking. But this couldn’t wait. God had spoken to her, and that was a fact. After a lifetime of praying, it had actually happened, and she dreaded what was coming next. Because as soon as God had said, “Take the unlikely road,” Alisha had known just exactly what that turn was. She didn’t want to do it. She hated the very idea of what was coming next. But God had said he would meet her there. And that left her with no choice. None at all.

  Twenty minutes later Alisha pulled up in front of a house she never thought she’d visit. The Rothmore district of Baltimore was a leafy enclave shining with wealth on this crisp April day. The brownstone townhouse fit the rich surroundings, as did the white Porsche Cayenne parked in the drive. Alisha took a double-fisted grip on her purse and marched up the front walk like she belonged.

  The door was answered by Kenneth, of course. It had to be him that appeared, not Alisha’s sister. It just had to be like this, the whole nasty business just pressed into her face like God had meant all along to challenge her in the toughest possible fashion. She loathed how Kenneth pretended to be delighted to see her. She detested his accent, like he didn’t know better than to stop breathing through his nose when he spoke. “Alisha, what a pleasant surprise. Does Tabby know you’re coming?”

  She hated that too. How he called his wife like he would a cat. But Alisha didn’t snip at him that Tabatha, the name their mother had given her sister, was a fine name. All she said was, “I was in church, and I felt like I needed to stop by.”

  “Of course. Welcome.” He stepped back, waving her inside. Like some highbrow earl or something. Instead of what he truly was, the godless white man who had stolen Alisha’s baby sister away. “Please, come in.”

  The interior was exactly as Alisha had imagined, beautiful and pristine and very expensive looking. A rich white man’s idea of a perfect home, full of antiques so delicate Alisha was afraid to sit down anywhere. Kenneth led her into a parlor and said, “Let me just go tell Tabby you’re here. I won’t be a moment.”

  As he bounded up the stairs, Alisha seated herself on the sofa. It wheezed softly, like a rich man’s sigh. Probably never had a black woman plunk herself down here before. Which she knew was untrue before the thought was even formed. And she wasn’t angry at the man. Not really. She was just angry. Like she wanted to yell at God for putting her in this position, but she couldn’t, so she just sat there. Being angry at a room.

  Past events started running through her brain, tight little bundles of emotions packed around each mental image like grenades. How their mother had gone up to work in Chicago, leaving Alisha and her sister to be raised by their grandmother. How the mother had not come back, not even when their grandmother had become ill, and so Alisha had become mother to the sister who was only four years younger than herself. How Alisha had scrimped and saved and worked so Tabatha could finish high school, and go on to community college, and then win a scholarship to the university where her husband taught sociology. How the first thing Alisha had known about their relationship was when Tabatha had told her about the engagement. What a night that had been. That particular argument had blistered the paint. But it did not hold a candle to the quarrel they’d had the day before the wedding, when Alisha learned there was not to be a preacher, not even a white preacher. Instead, they were getting married down in the courthouse. Because neither Tabatha nor her white-bread husband believed in God.

  “Alisha? What are you doing here?”

  It was just amazing how tiny her sister was. People seeing the two of them together might not have said anything, but Alisha had a lifetime’s experience at reading the unspoken verdict in their faces. How Tabatha was beautiful and lithe and narrow-waisted and long-limbed, like a dancer. And Alisha was just plain big.

  And there Tabatha stood. Poised and refined. Like she’d been born to live in this elegant, historic row house, with a man who had inherited more money than they knew what to do with, and how they didn’t find any need for God. Her little sister. All grown up.

  Alisha pushed herself to her feet. “Hello, Tabatha.”

  “You have to excuse me, I’m a little shocked. I thought you said you’d never set foot in my home.”

  Kenneth hovered in the front hallway. He cleared his throat, which was probably a white man’s way of being nervous. “Will you ladies take coffee?”

  Alisha had no idea how to respond. Which Pastor Terry’s wife would definitely say was a first. When she didn’t speak, her sister said, “We’re fine here, Kenneth. Just give us a moment, please.”

  The woman even talked white.

  “I’ll just be in the kitchen if you need me.”

  Tabatha stood there, studying her sister, like she’d never set eyes on the woman before. “Why are you here?” she asked again.

  Alisha had not known what she was going to say until that very moment. But the words were there waiting. As she spoke, she wondered if that was what God had meant when he’d said that he would meet her at the turning.

  Alisha said, “I’ve come to apologize.”

  Tabatha cocked her head. “Why now? I mean, excuse me for asking, sister. But after all this time, don’t you think you owed me a phone call before turning up out of the blue?”

  “Yes. You’re right. And I would have, if I’d thought of it.”

  “You didn’t think to call me.”

  “No. I’m sorry.”

  “Two apologies in the space of a minute. After four years of nothing.” Tabatha gave a reluctant wave at the sofa. “I suppose you might as well sit back down.”

  She remained where she was. “I was in church this morning.”

  “Of course you were. It’s Sunday. Where else would you be?” Tabatha walked to the narrow table by the window, opened a silver box, and pulled out a cigarette and lighter.

  Alisha watched her sister light up. “I didn’t know you smoked.”

  “Since I was fifteen. We all have our secrets.” The smoke deepened her voice, making it sound sultry. “So you were in church.”

  Alisha nodded slowly. “God spoke to me. And said I needed to do this.”

  Tabath
a eyed her through the smoke. “God takes such a personal interest in your affairs that he tells you to come apologize?”

  Normally the acidic cynicism would have been enough to set Alisha alight. In this case, however, she felt nothing. Not even regret. Just a calm so complete she might as well have been seated in her car out front, instead of inside this place where she most certainly did not belong. “That’s right. He does.”

  “Any idea why he waited four years to send down that little note?”

  “I suppose … Maybe he didn’t think I was ready.”

  “But you’re ready now.”

  Alisha nodded. “You’re looking good, Tabatha.”

  “Money will do that to a person.” She stubbed out the cigarette. “I’m happy, Alisha.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “I’m not going to stand here and have you use this apology as an excuse to tell me I’m living a godless life.”

  “I didn’t come here to do anything more than apologize.”

  “Not now, not ever. You hear me? I won’t have you sitting on your little church throne and spouting judgment over me or my man. I’m all grown up now, just like you said. I’m living my life. You hear me? My life.”

  Alisha heard that, and she heard how her sister had waited four long years for the chance to say those words. And the knowledge was enough to send a tear hot as lava rolling down her face. “I’ve missed you. So much.”

  Tabatha’s face went through a remarkable transformation. For a brief instant, the determined poise melted like soft wax, and the woman showed a heart that ached. The eyes liquefied, the lips trembled, the hands danced up and around and down. Then Tabatha took a hard breath, and rebuilt the tight facade that fit this room and this world. “In that case, why don’t you join us for lunch. We’re having a few people over.”

  “Thank you, Tabatha. That is so sweet of you. I’m happy to accept.”

  Alisha just knew it was going to be awful.

  3

  “Humble yourselves before the Lord …”

  NEW YORK CITY

  Trent entered the boardroom behind his boss. The summons to meet with the CEO of their parent organization on a Sunday had caught his supervisor, Darren, completely by surprise. But not Trent. He had been dreaming of this moment for years.

  The closest either he or Darren had ever come to Barry Mundrose was watching him on the stage at the annual corporate gathering. Trent knew it had been a huge risk to send their chairman a confidential copy of his recent report. Darren would have fired him outright the day he learned of what Trent had done, except the news arrived with this summons.

  Trent’s boss shot him a look of equal parts fury and fear as they passed the lovely receptionist and entered through the double doors. Trent did not care what the man thought. One way or the other, either he got what he wanted inside here, or he was gone.

  Trent’s boss survived by playing the turtle. At every sign of trouble, Darren retreated inside his corporate shell. Which was why Trent had not shared with him the news that he had gone around him, and three other layers, to the man himself: Barry Mundrose. CEO of Global Communications.

  The second chamber held a trio of desks, two for secretaries and a third for temporary staffers brought in to manage a specific project that had captured Mundrose’s attention. He liked to be close to the action, and planting an executive here meant he could take the new project’s temperature on an hourly basis. Such hands-on direction was the Mundrose trademark. Young staffers who had once sat behind that now-empty desk held any number of senior executive positions, because Mundrose used this place as a training ground, a chance to take the measure of the men and women he intended to lift into the clouds. As Trent passed he shot the desk a hard look, and promised himself for the second time that day, soon.

  The boardroom held the largest conference table Trent had ever seen, an oval at least thirty feet long. The room held eleven chairs, and nine were arrayed around the far end, occupied by six men and three women. Two empty chairs awaited Trent and his boss at the other end. Lonely. Isolated.

  The nine people scrutinized them as the receptionist asked if they wanted anything. Darren responded with a shake of his head. Trent asked for a glass of water.

  Barry Mundrose sat in the center position. “Let’s see. You’re in our advertising division—do I have that right?”

  Trent’s boss stammered an affirmative.

  “All right, gentlemen. You’ve got five minutes to impress us.”

  Trent’s boss cleared his throat. “I think I’ll let my associate speak for us both.”

  Ever since the summons’ arrival, Darren had raged and threatened and demanded that Trent tell him exactly what he had in mind. Trent’s reply had remained unchanged. “It’s all there in the report. The one you refused to read or even acknowledge.”

  Trent rose to his feet—no papers, no pad, nothing. These people would have seen every visual image known to the human race. They were professionals at refusing to be wowed by special effects. His only hope was to give them the bare facts, bring them to the same conclusion he had reached.

  “The stats I’ve gathered are all in the report in front of you. The two generations that form our most important audience are also the hardest to reach, and even harder to keep hold of. The attention of Generation Xers and the Millennials wanes so fast, some of our most popular efforts lose traction before the end of their first season.”

  Trent spoke very carefully, at a pace that some people found irritating, including his boss. He had no choice in the matter. He’d been born with a cleft palate, and the residual effects meant if he tried to accelerate his speech, he slurred his words. And he intended to be as clear and precise as he possibly could.

  Trent gave three minutes to a brief summary of the statistical evidence. He mentioned television shows from the Mundrose line-up that had started huge and faded fast. Films that had been megahits, yet whose spin-offs and sequels had flopped. Magazines that had garnered massive initial readerships, then gone bust in the space of two advertising cycles. Trent used two examples from each of the conglomerate’s main divisions—film, television, advertising and marketing, music, book publishing, magazines and print, electronic games. He listed the exact revenue figures from memory. He had to be right, because at the table’s far end sat the presidents of those seven divisions, along with Mundrose’s son and daughter, who served as his joint executive managing directors. Most people who had witnessed Trent’s ability to recall anything he had either read or seen assumed he had a photographic memory. They were wrong. At an early age, Trent had studied a book about enhancing memorability and applied the lessons. He was not particularly strong, he had few special talents. So he had done the absolute most with what he had. And that had been enough to get him here.

  “Time magazine recently described these two generations, the X-ers and the Millennials, as the ‘Me-Me-Me generations.’ They are the most self-absorbed people ever known. Some have made a talent of superficiality. Others are very attuned to the disadvantaged and forgotten. With both generations, our standard methods of maintaining customer loyalty don’t work.”

  Trent walked over to stand by the window looking out on Times Square. “For us to succeed with this audience, we have to change our entire way of thinking. The Mundrose divisions cannot continue to compete against each other and thrive or even survive. Our audience has become too fragmented. There are too many voices clamoring for their attention. They lose interest too quickly. They have an ingrained cynicism to all forms of commercial promotion.”

  Trent moved back to the head of the table, drawing them away from the lights and the milling crowds outside, silenced by the triple-paned glass. To his satisfaction, every head turned with him. Even his boss’s. “The divisions must be united behind one single project. One concept large enough to demand a joint effort of all divisions, backed by an entire season’s marketing budget.”

  The two Mundrose children could not have been more
different. The son was narrow in every sense, a ferret-faced man with a greyhound’s lean body, a tight gaze behind grey titanium glasses, and an accountant’s constricted viewpoint. His voice pierced through the room. “You’re suggesting we risk an entire quarter’s revenue on one project. That’s insane. The danger is unacceptable.” The man’s reaction could not have been better if Trent had scripted it.

  The daughter, a flame-haired vixen with a raspy tone, was the child who shared her father’s vision and his rapacious appetites. She said, “Not if the project is big enough. Not if the potential for profit balances the risk.”

  He waited then, holding his breath. Hoping.

  Finally Mundrose said, “So give us this trend.”

  He could have leapt upon the table and raced down its length to hug the man. Would have, if there had been any chance of surviving. Instead, he made do with, “The advertising and marketing divisions conduct an annual survey of these two generations, trying to determine what their interests are, what trends are rising and which are falling.”

  The Mundrose son snapped, “That is highly confidential information. No one outside the division or this room is supposed to even know about those surveys.”

  The sister glanced across the father to smirk at her brother. Then she turned back to Trent and nodded.

  “What I propose is to turn this on its head,” Trent said. “If all the Global Communications divisions were to unite, it would create the most powerful cultural force on earth.”

  Trent’s own audacity struck him with such force, it caused his voice to falter. Barry Mundrose was known to take great pleasure in baiting his divisions, forcing them to fight among themselves. When confronted by the opposition, he did not deny, he did not defend. He bragged. He referred to the Global divisional chiefs as his partially trained pit bulls.