The End Is Her

by H. Claire Taylor

  “I love you, Jesus, but can you go away for a little while?”

  He pressed his palms together and bowed. “Of course, my sister.”

  Jeremy took the hint and, with a great crinkling of his thermal blanket, got up as well. As he passed her, he, too, grabbed her shoulder. “Let me know the moment you’re a 501(c)(3), and my corporation will donate more tax-deductible money than you know what to do with.”

  She couldn’t help but think that sounded like a threat.

  Once they were gone Quentin joined her over on the couch but didn’t say anything right away.

  “Why can’t things just be normal ever? Why am I twenty-three and having to sort through emotions surrounding donations from people who believe something I don’t even believe myself and a fucking Texas Railroad Commissioner who’s just announced I’m going to bring about the end of the world on my next birthday?”

  Quentin shrugged. “Everyone’s got problems, Jess. Yours are just unique to you.”

  “And what are your problems?”

  “I’m single. My boss is a white guy who thinks it’s okay to use the N-word when we’re out for drinks, my best friend pretty much lives her life from one self-pity spiral to the next and is always in a state of chaos on a biblical level, and even though I make good money at my job, I’m struggling to amass any wealth because I have an obligation to support my parents and grandparents who never had a chance to build wealth for themselves because of redlining, income inequality, and all the other setbacks of being black in the Jim Crow South.”

  Jessica narrowed her eyes at him. “Wait. I’m your best friend?”

  He sighed, pressing his lips together tightly before saying, “Looks like it.”

  “Don’t sound so down.”

  “I apologize. Our time together is always uplifting and never emotionally exhausting.”

  Her mind leaped to Miranda, her archetypal Best Friend. The lithe blonde figure had faded to hardly more than a subconscious specter over their years apart and months without speaking. Jessica hadn’t even called her while she was in California on the road trip. That wasn’t how best friends behaved.

  Who had assumed the title after Miranda, then? Chris, certainly, though she hadn’t realized it at the time. He had been something else in her mind while Miranda continued to hold that title, unexamined, of “best friend.” But now? Now that her relationship with Chris was over and he was hardly more than her puppy-eyed sugar daddy?

  Quentin. Quentin always showed up.

  “For what it’s worth,” she replied, “you’re my best friend, too.”

  Vulnerability hung in the air between them, and he cocked his head to the side, eyeing her closely. “Are we … are we about to make out?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Man, you do need to get laid.”

  “You’re telling me.”

  “I’m surprised Chris isn’t your best friend.”

  “He was, but it’s sort of a requirement of mine that my best friend is there for me when I need him, and Chris… well, you know.”

  “I do. I think he was my best friend for a long time, too.”

  Quentin cursed. “That two-timing son of a bitch. He was best friends with both of us and thought we wouldn’t find out?”

  “Thankfully he’s miserable without us, up there in Philly, living out his childhood dreams.”

  Quentin laughed. “What were your childhood dreams?”

  “Ew. Let’s not even talk about it.”

  “Mine was to work at NASA.”

  “Astronaut?”

  “Sadly, no. I was too nerdy for that. I wanted to be in the control room.”

  “Bullshit. No kid looks at NASA and wants to be in the control room.”

  “I did.”

  “Then I guess you’re right about everyone having problems.”

  “Now you gotta tell me yours.”

  “My what?”

  “Your childhood dreams.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t.”

  “You do.”

  “Why does it even matter? I’m locked into this whole messiah thing. I’m happier if I don’t think about what I want.”

  “What happens once you do this thing? Once you bring peace to the United States? You could have decades of your life left. What then?”

  Her shoulders slumped. “I’ve always assumed I wouldn’t live past that point. That doing what I was put here to do would require dying.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Yeah, like that.”

  “That’s grim.”

  “And true.”

  “But what if that’s not the end? What if you knock it out in the next couple of years? What would you do then?”

  “Not a clue.”

  Quentin’s tone softened. “That’s really sad, Jessica. Like, I’m genuinely sad for you.”

  “Don’t be.” And as he scooted closer to her on the couch, she put her hands out to push him back. “Oh, come on. Don’t— You don’t need— It’s not that bad.” But too late. She was already wrapped up in his arms, the side of her head pressed against his chest.

  She stopped fighting.

  She should say something, but what?

  IF THIS ISN’T JUST THE SWEETEST THING THE LORD EVER DID SEE. BLESS YOUR PRECIOUS HEARTS.

  Jessica jerked back, eyes wide, staring at Quentin.

  He held up his hands defensively. “That’s a tube of Chapstick, I swear. I always keep it in my pocket.”

  “No, it’s not that.”

  Say that again?

  But the Lord was silent now. Had she misheard?

  “What?” Quentin said, more frantically now.

  “God just spoke to me. And the voice sounded … feminine.”

  His mouth opened slowly. “Do you think …?”

  “It sure sounded like it.”

  “We should check the website.”

  He opened her laptop and refreshed the website to check total pledges.

  He gasped. She would have gasped, but she was unable to suck any air into her lungs.

  Over three hundred thousand dollars. Quentin refreshed. Three hundred and twenty thousand. He refreshed again. Three hundred and twenty-three thousand.

  “Holy shit,” Jessica breathed. “It’s working. They’re starting to believe.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  354:13:53:45 until Doomsday

  The next week of pretending her new church wasn’t absolutely raking in the dough was a blur. Wendy had advised her to keep up her normal routine—after all, money never went as far as it seemed like it would, so seven million dollars for a church was hardly more than pocket change.

  That was bullshit, of course, and Jessica knew it. Seven million dollars was seven million dollars. It would more than pay for Wendy, Cash, Judith, and Jessica’s groceries with plenty left over to start construction and outreach. But what kind of outreach would she do?

  She considered that thoroughly during her morning spent at Waverly Hills Retirement Home.

  I could hire better staff here for a start. Could she do that? She might have to buy the place outright, but a few more weeks of the cash pouring in like it had been, and she could probably afford to do it. But did she really want to?

  It’d been a long morning of volunteering made even longer by the fact that only one of her favorite residents had been available to visit. Santorini was napping, and Jan had some distant niece visiting, no doubt to hit her up for money.

  But at least she’d avoided Rosemary Heathrow, so the conflict had been minimal.

  Jessica dropped her name tag off at the front desk but didn’t bother signing up for a future shift. No need to set the date in stone, and there was never a waiting list.

  She had just stepped out into the hot summer sun, felt the scorching heat from above meet the sweltering waves from the asphalt below, making her feel a bit like a microwavable meal, when the worst possible thing happened.

  A white Rolls Royce pulled into the parking lot. She’d neve
r seen the car before, but her radar for disaster started to ping right away.

  Not bothering to park legally, the driver pulled straight into the semi-circular resident drop-off area in front of her and killed the engine. Through the heavily tinted windows, she could just make out his bright white suit.

  “Jessica, my dear!” Jimmy shouted as he gracefully exited the vehicle and immediately turned her way. “What a surprise!” He shut the door and walked around toward her.

  “You mean to tell me you just happened to be visiting Waverly Hills?”

  He chuckled, showing off his teeth, which were whiter since the last time she’d seen him. Any further bleaching, and she’d be able to gaze right through them. “You got me,” he said. “I heard you’d be here, and I’ve been so eager to have a chat.”

  He reached her and tried to put an arm around her shoulder, but she twisted and karate chopped it away in time.

  An orderly passed them, back from his lunch break, and said, “Afternoon, Reverend Dean.”

  “And a blessed afternoon to you too,” he called back before mumbling, “whoever you are.”

  “How did he know your name?” she asked.

  “Everyone knows my name. Come. Let’s have a chat.”

  Jessica searched her memory—surely she’d filed a restraining order against Jimmy Dean at some point, right? But she couldn’t recall having actually done it. Gross oversight on her part, then.

  “I don’t want to chat with you. I can’t even stand to look at you. I mean that in the most literal sense. That suit reflects so much sunlight directly into my eyes, I’m fixing to slap those sunglasses right off your head and claim them as my own.”

  “Oh, my dear, sweet child! You have your mother’s sense of humor.”

  “And you have the Devil’s.”

  That shut him up. He leaned forward, his grandiose facade evaporating. “I really need to speak with you. I think we could both help each other out quite a bit.”

  The implication of his words hit her, and she felt instantly giddy. Jimmy would never offer to help her out. Not really. He would, however, try to get her to help him.

  Which meant he needed her help.

  He was in trouble.

  She had the upper hand.

  Unfortunately, she had no fucking clue what to do with that.

  So, she reached in her purse and pulled out Wendy Peterman’s card. “Call my publicist. If you want to talk, she’ll arrange something.”

  She stepped around him while he was still reading the card. As she made for her car, she heard another orderly say, “Welcome, Reverend Dean. We weren’t expecting you today but—”

  “I’m just on my way out,” Jimmy snapped.

  And before she even unlocked her driver’s side door, the Rolls Royce sped away from Waverly Hills.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  351:10:03:02 until Doomsday

  “They love you, sister!” Jesus insisted as he led her down the street toward his new favorite homeless shelter.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “It is true! I’ve been telling them about your mission for months now, and they are excited to speak with you!”

  She stopped walking. “So, like, do I need personal security?” She certainly had the money for it sitting in the church’s bank account. It wouldn’t be ideal to take money away for security purposes, but she was kind of important to the continuation of the budding religion, and there were still millions of people left to convince.

  “No, no,” Jesus assured her. “They promised to be on their best behavior.”

  She was aware that “best” meant different things to different people.

  But when she entered the shelter’s cafeteria, she discovered something strange: Jesus had known what he was talking about.

  “Hello, friends!” he proclaimed. When those already at the tables saw him, they cheered and waved.

  Wow. He’d really made an impression. His hard work was paying off. Jesus, king of the hobos. Good for him.

  “This is my sister, Jessica!” He pointed emphatically at her and a slightly smaller portion of the crowd cheered.

  She waved timidly. “What’s happening?” she whispered.

  “They love you! They want to follow you!”

  She hoped he didn’t mean literally. “But why? Did they donate to the church?”

  “Donate? Of course not, sister. What would they donate, a soiled shoe?”

  “Then how did you get them to like me if they’re not financially invested in me?”

  “To be fair, many of them still do not, so if you have anything of value in your pockets, keep an eye on it.”

  “And for those who won’t mug me?”

  He led her over to the kitchen to glove and apron up and get in the serving line. “It was simple once I got to know them. They struggle with an assortment of issues and demons—not literally—well, sometimes literally—but there was one thing that kept emerging. One need that I could sense in them.”

  “And that was?”

  “I simply asked them to imagine the last time someone held them. Not restrained them, because that’s where a lot of their minds went, but lovingly held them. I asked them who it was. It was always a woman. And I told them that is because God is a woman and following you could give them that feeling.”

  On the menu was shredded chicken that smelled more like fish, something that looked like creamed spinach, and, of course, some rolls that she’d low-key miracle before serving. “I’m not holding them. I don’t mean to sound cruel, but it just doesn’t seem hygienic or safe.”

  “It is neither. But you don’t have to hold them, sister. The goal is simply to help them remember that someone, sometime, held them like that. They want to be nurtured. They end up here because when they really needed it, they were not. These are the people we have forgotten. They just want to know someone cares. And you do.”

  Did she, though? She was here serving them, so maybe that was something. But her need to recoil slightly upon seeing one of the homeless folks move toward her too quickly or catching a whiff of one in close quarters hadn’t disappeared. Could she truly care about people who repulsed her like that?

  “You care, too,” she said. “And one of these days, I’m going to understand how you do it.”

  He beamed as he slipped on the hair net. “It’s not hard. You just look at them and love them.”

  “I’ll give it a try.”

  They approached the line and a woman came through. Her blonde hair was in unintentional dreadlocks and one of her eyes was halfway closed.

  Jesus was ahead of Jessica in the serving order, and said, “What can I serve you today, Harmony?”

  The woman turned her fully open eye to Jesus, then down to the various food vats. “That.” She pointed at the creamed spinach.

  There was something about the way she said that that broke Jessica’s heart. It was childlike but full of a deep exhaustion and futility. Who was this woman? What had she been through? Could Jessica love her?

  “And what can I get for you today?” Jessica asked a moment later.

  “That.” The woman pointed at the chicken.

  “Harmony,” Jesus said, “this is my sister, the one I told you about. The daughter of God.”

  Harmony nodded slightly, accepted the shredded chicken and a roll, and then carried her plate over to an empty seat.

  “She comes from a place called Iowa,” Jesus explained. “Her family found out she was a homosexual when she was fifteen and kicked her out. She has been addicted to drugs ever since. I hugged her and she cried. She hadn’t been properly held in seventeen years.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Jessica mumbled, feeling a tsunami of unwelcome emotion gathering a few miles offshore.

  “Darius!” Jesus proclaimed as a man entered the dining hall and made for the serving line. Darius scratched at his arms and looked around frantically. He wore shorts that exposed dark, cracked skin on his calves with angry red dots speckled arou
nd. Bug bites? Injection sites? She didn’t let her gaze linger.

  Upon hearing his own name, Darius’s eyes went wide until he saw who had spoken. He hurried over to Jesus. “They’re following me. The cops been following me for the last seven blocks. They gonna kill me.”

  “I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen,” Jesus said. “Creamed spinach?”

  “Yeah, summa that. How you gonna make sure it doesn’t happen? They can get away with whatever they want. They’re the law!”

  “They are the law of the land. But look who I have with me, Darius. This is my sister Jessica who I told you about. God’s daughter. She can smite evildoers with the power of Mother God.”

  Jessica struggled to stand her ground against Darius’s intense gaze. “That’s me,” she said.

  He took his creamed spinach and moved down the line closer to her. “You’re God’s daughter?”

  “Yep.”

  “Then your Mother can go fuck Herself.”

  Jessica laughed before she could help it. “I feel the same way sometimes.” She slopped the chicken onto the plate. “It’s nice to hear someone else be so honest about it.”

  He grabbed his tray and left.

  “What happened when you hugged him?” she asked.

  Jesus shook his head slowly like a proud father. “He punched me the first few times I tried. But, you know, I’ve had worse. Finally he let me do it, but only when he was sure no one was looking. I think he liked it, even though he shoved me and called me a name right after it. He has been nicer to me since.”

  “Hey, what ever happened to your slogan of treat every homeless person like they have a gun?”

  “Oh, that was not for me. That was for the rest of the world. Nothing I could say would elicit the sympathy they deserve from the public, so I decided the next best thing was simple protection. Besides, in my experience, they do not carry guns. They carry knives.” He pulled up the sleeve of his Ratt T-shirt (he still liked to borrow Jeremy’s clothes now and again, even though he had his own) to expose a mean scar running down his left bicep.